


Sugar, Spice & Wedding Hell

by BloodyIvar



Series: Wedding Hell [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyIvar/pseuds/BloodyIvar
Summary: Gen is a talented baker who agrees to help organize a friend's wedding... little realizing the chaos she's getting herself into. What knocks her for a loop is getting mixed up in a whirlwind romance spicier than her famous cinnamon rolls after she runs into Hvitserk -- literally! When wedding preparations stretch everyone's tempers thin, will our heroine reach out for romance before this handsome hero's patience runs out?





	1. Chapter 1

The bakery was packed. Hvitserk Lothbrok blinked at the lines. Some of the people at the counter were shouting. Many of the people who hadn’t made it to the counter yet were shouting. Most of the other waiting customers looked annoyed. He turned to look at his host. “Is this really necessary?” 

“Yep!” Angela chirped. Angela Andrews was marrying his friend Eirik in a week and Hvitserk was going to house-sit their apartment while they were on their honeymoon. Water the plants, get the mail, that sort of thing. Hvitserk squinted at how chipper she was. It was six o’clock in the morning but you’d never know it by looking at her. “Are you sure? I’m not used to getting up this early.” Hvitserk, on the other hand, knew he probably looked like a bear woken up from hibernation a month too soon. But Angela laughed happily and didn’t take offense. 

“Of course it is! After eight all the cinnamon rolls are usually gone and you’ve got to have one of Sweet Favors cinnamon rolls.” She stood on tiptoe to try to peer around the crowds. “It’s not usually this crowded, though.” 

“Must be because of Valentine’s Day.” There was a woman behind the counter, scribbling down notes on a small pad when she wasn’t handing over pastry and coffee to customers. She was efficient and the look on her face was friendly, but her patience was visibly fraying in the face of the crowds. 

Three customers were jostling for attention at the same time and the general mood among the crowd was impatient, frustrated, and annoyed. The door to the back kitchen burst open and a woman in a crisp white apron with long black hair rushed through carrying a huge paper-lined tray. From the traces of flour and icing on her apron Hvitserk assumed she was the baker. She moved gracefully under the tray, eyes sparkling. Hvitserk thought they were hazel… and then wondered why they’d caught his attention. Maybe it was the tray full of pastry. At this time of morning anyone looked better carrying sugar. 

“Who wants bear claws?” she called over the crowd cheerfully, a huge smile on her face. “Show of hands!” Hands shot up all over the bakery. “One line, ladies and gentlemen, right in front of me please. For bear claws only!” The cashier looked confused, and the curvaceous woman in the apron and jeans grinned at her, full of playful challenge. Hvitserk blinked. It’s not just the pastries, he admitted to himself. It’s the baker who’s enchanting. “If you’ll take the cake order, I’ll handle this.” She straightened up and yelled over the crowd. “Is anyone here for coffee?” A few scattered hands went up. Hvitserk’s was among them.

The baker yelled over her shoulder for someone in the back to come out and run the espresso machine. Money and pastry changed hands almost as fast as the register could ring it up, and when a teenager came out and started making coffee, the baker yelled across the room again. “Cinnamon rolls are up next! Line up behind the folks waiting for bear claws, please, and use your nice manners!” She smiled at the crowd. “There are plenty more coming in another…” She checked her watch. “…fifteen minutes!” The crowd, seemed much happier and more relaxed than when Hvitserk had first arrived. 

A small group of college students jokingly cheered upon hearing the cinnamon roll announcement. The line was moving quickly. Hvitserk looked at Angela. “Do I want a bear claw?” he asked her. 

Angela shook her head. “No, you want a cinnamon roll.” 

“Are you sure?” Angela pushed him towards a table that had just emptied and beamed. “Trust me. Hold our spot.” 

“Please get me coffee!” he called after her. She waved at him without looking as she waded into the fray. The lines were moving more quickly now that there were two servers—one server was helping people who wanted to stay and eat in the shop—and the other server was doing her best to help customers that were in a hurry to order and leave. Many in this line seemed panicked and impatient and, of course, this line moved much slower. The first woman, the one who’d been handling the counter alone when Hvitserk and Angela had arrived, looked as if she was in over her head with an increasingly irate customer. Her smile was more plastic than polite when the baker leaned over, listened to the customer’s demands, and said, clearly enough that Hvitserk could hear her over the chatter, “No. I’m sorry but there is no way we can make something that complicated in time for Valentine’s Day. I really do apologize, but it just can’t be done.” 

“Are you kidding?” Hvitserk did not have any trouble hearing the customer’s voice. “My boyfriend loves Patience cake! You’ve got a week, that’s plenty of time!” The baker and the counter-keeper both smiled. “We’re already overbooked for advance specialty orders,” the baker said firmly. “I’m very sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do for Valentine’s Day!” The customer behind her had a different question. “So I heard you’re out of advance orders. Does that mean I can come in and order this the day of?” and thrust an open magazine forward. Eirik came in as Hvitserk, with an almost morbid fascination, watched the baker explain as tactfully as possible that while the customer could certainly come in on the morning of Valentine’s Day and buy as many cupcakes as they had available, he would probably not be able to buy an entire cupcake tree worth of cupcakes and no, even if he did manage to be first in line and buy three dozen, they would not look like the magazine photo he was showing her. It wasn’t a job Hvitserk envied her. That baker… he couldn’t quite figure out why he found her so mesmerizing, but he suspected a big part of it was her unique ability to put people at ease. 

Things didn’t necessarily get less busy around her, and they certainly didn’t get quieter, but they definitely became more organized. Minutes after she’d bustled through the door with a baking sheet full of pastry, the unruly customers had sorted themselves out into what Hvitserk was starting to think of as the “easy” and “hard” lines. He couldn’t imagine having to stand there and tell that many people “no” to their faces, over and over, and have it be his job. It sounded like hell. Eirik observed the crowd and whistled. “Is Angela in line?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Think we should send help?” 

“What? Oh, no. No, it’s calmed down a lot since the baker came out and started yelling at people.”  

“Gen’s out front?” Eirik frowned. “But that means she’s not making more cinnamon rolls!” 

“These had better be the best cinnamon rolls in the world,” Hvitserk grumbled, leaning forward over the table planting his elbows on the edge and resting his chin on his hands. “It’s early and the coffee line is long.” 

“Angela’s getting you your coffee, you whiner.” He looked. Angela had reached the counter and was exchanging friendly greetings with the bake shop staff, who gave her broad, genuine smiles in return. Cinnamon rolls and coffee finally in hand, Angela waved goodbye and moved to let the next customer pass. When she returned to the table, Eirik didn’t wait for her to sit down before he claimed his treat. Hvitserk took his coffee first. Eirik had finished his cinnamon roll and Angela was halfway through hers before Hvitserk even took his first bite. Then he paused, swallowed, and took another. Then another. He glanced at his friends. “This is a really good cinnamon roll,” he said, surprised.   
Angela looked pleased. “Told you,” Eirik said. “C’mon, we’ve gotta go move the last of Angela’s furniture from her apartment as soon as you’re done.” Great. Just what he wanted to do, spend his vacation time moving furniture. Hvitserk looked up, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the baker, but she was gone—and her cinnamon rolls with her. 

Gen sped down the freezer aisle, hazel eyes focused on her list. I got the chocolate, sugar… a lot of sugar, still need marshmallow goo, butter… I think I need eggs, too. Waxed paper… As a baker, her day had begun incredibly early. Gen was taking next week off to travel to help with her friend’s wedding preparations. Since she was the head baker of Sweet Favors and this was the week before Valentine’s Day, she’d endured long days helping the shop’s other baker get ready to cope with her impending absence. She needed to hurry and get home, and— Not paying attention, she rammed her cart into a muscular man contemplating the frozen burritos. “Oh my gosh!” Gen’s hands flew from her cart handle to cover her mouth. “I am so sorry.” 

The man cursed under his breath, then added: “Ow. Would you watch where you’re going!” Bright green eyes glared at Gen from behind shoulder-length, straight dirty blond hair. Angry and irritated, the man stood up and stiffened, favoring his wounded ankle. “Are you all right? I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention—” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” he snapped. “Do you have a license for that thing?” 

Gen blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?” The man stared at Gen, and she thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Maybe he was one of her customers? Not a regular; this wasn’t anyone she knew… which was too bad. Apart from the temper (and her utter mortification at running him over) he was handsome.

“Never mind,” he said more quietly, obviously calming down now, “it was a bad joke. I’m sorry for snapping at you.” 

“I—what?” Gen stammered, surprised. “I am really, really sorry. I’ll buy you an ice pack, or—” 

“No, it’s okay,” the muscular man sighed. “Really. Everything’s still attached,” he wiggled his foot, clearly fighting a grimace, “and that’s why they invented frozen peas. I’ll be okay.”

“Well, good,” she said, still embarrassed. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t say it enough.” 

“Don’t mention it.” The man sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. You apologized, it was an accident, and you didn’t deserve to have my bad day taken out on you. I think we need to start over. Hi, my name is Hvitserk Lothbrok, I’m sorry I lost my temper, and I accept your apology for the shopping cart mishap. It’s not a big deal, just try to swerve next time.”  It was Gen’s turn to grimace, flushing. “How is that starting over?” Hvitserk watched her expectantly as Gen ran a hand through her long black hair and sighed. “Gen. Gen Racine. I… forgive you for yelling at me?” 

“There.” Hvitserk smiled. “That wasn’t so hard. You have a good night.” He opened the freezer door and snagged a package of burritos. “I’ll see you around, maybe,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked down the aisle. Gen watched him go until he turned out of sight at the end of the aisle. Injuring innocent bystanders. Wonderful. It was the perfect end to a long, long day—one that technically wasn’t over yet. Unsettled and out of sorts, Gen finished her shopping and prepared to battle the end-of-work traffic on the way home. 

Gen closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh. Every car in Kattegat seemed to be on the roads tonight, which was ridiculous. It was February, not Christmas. Her phone chose that moment to ring. She let it ring twice before fishing it out of her pocket and checking the caller ID. Whitney. Whitney Wall, her best friend, was acceptable. “Hey.” 

“Hey. What’s wrong?” 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Gen asked, starting to smile. She started to put the groceries away. 

“Not when you sound like that.” 

“No, I’m just tired. It’s been crazy trying to get ready to be away next week. Everyone in town was in the bakery and only half of them had reasonable demands, and then I accidentally ran my shopping cart into someone at the store. Full speed.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Yeah, that’s what he said. He was pretty rude, but I can’t blame him at all. I hit him with the cart in a practically empty aisle, for goodness’ sake. So, what’s up?” The wedding was on Valentine’s Day and snags were presenting themselves left and right. Whitney and Gen had taken to calling each other at every new development just to keep abreast of plans. It wasn’t that their mutual friend—Angela, the bride— was disorganized, it was just that she seemed to be so busy that she’d given the instructions for person A to person B, and told what person B needed to know to person C. Whitney swore that “Oh my gosh, didn’t I tell you that?” was going to be iced onto the cake at this point. 

“Not too much. I just found out I was volunteered to show Angela’s parents around the city once we arrive. She heard I used to live there, and I could have said no, but I didn’t. I don’t mind, it’s not that big a deal, I just really wish I’d been asked.” Gen could almost hear the eye roll that went with Whitney’s sigh. “It’s annoying, but at least Angela feels bad about it when she notices.” 

“So you don’t tell her? Just say ‘no’.” 

“Well, yeah. It’s her wedding, Gen, and she’s just… scattered. She’s not doing it on purpose. I don’t want her to beat herself up over forgetting whether or not she asked me,” Whitney explained, “and this is nowhere near as bad as my old roommate was when she got married—from the moment she said ‘yes’ until the moment she said ‘I do’ it was like nobody had minds or opinions except her.” 

“Ugh,” Gen scoffed.. “I hate being taken for granted like that.” 

“Ack. Yeah, I bet that is kind of a sore spot for you after the Jerk.” Gen made a face. 

“Can we not talk about my ex while we’re in the middle of discussing a wedding?” 

“Right, sorry. So what are you in for now?” 

“I volunteered to help with the favors. I offered, mea culpa. But the wedding’s two hundred miles away, right? So I asked if she needed any help hauling stuff over. It went from offering to transport the favors to transporting the favors plus picking up the cakes—and have I told you about that?” 

“Tell me you’re not making the cake, too.” 

“No, thank God.” Now Gen was imagining her friend Whitney curled up on the sofa grinning into the phone. “Tell me about the cake.” 

“The cakes.” 

“What?” 

“Cake-ssss,” Gen enunciated. “Plural. As in many. One per table, to be exact, and there’s only eight people per table.” 

“Oh god. How big are the cakes?” 

“Only eight inches,” Gen said. “I heard a rumor that the baker talked them out of ten-inch rounds.” 

“That’s… that’s a lot of cake. And there’s going to be how many tables?”

“Eighteen.” Gen paused for effect. “Plus a four-tier wedding cake.” 

“That is a lot of cake, Gen.” 

“I know, but apparently it’s a dream of Eirik’s and the only thing he really wanted and it’s not that much cake, really, and it was just so cute when she said he could have it and it’s better not to run out and—and—and.” Gen sighed. “And it’s their wedding and as long as everyone who wants to get married gets married then it’s mission accomplished. I still don’t think they have any accurate idea of exactly how much cake this is. They’ll be having cake for breakfast for a week.”

“And lunch, and dinner.” Whitney laughed. “You know, that might have been Eirik’s evil plot.”

“Step one, cake three meals a day, step two, take over the world?” 

“I was thinking ‘profit,’ but that’ll do. Wait,” Whitney interrupted herself. “The cake isn’t being delivered?” 

“No,” Gen leaned forward, hissing into the phone like a scandalized matron. “All of that cake has to be transported.” 

“Isn’t cake usually delivered?” 

“For weddings? It depends on the bakery, but yes, it’s often delivered.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll call the bakery and make sure.” 

“If it isn’t, call me. I’ll pay for delivery as my wedding gift.” 

“To Angela or to me?” 

“Yes.” Gen laughed. Then she noticed the time and sighed. “I’ve got to go, I need to get started.” 

“On what?” asked Whitney. 

“I’m making fudge.” 

“Why are you making fudge?” 

“Because I’m an idiot. I offered. I wanted to do something sweet and fun for them that’d take some of the stress off so I asked if I could make the favors. I thought fudge would be a neat, unique wedding favor and Angela and Eirik liked it so now instead of tying up Jordan almonds in tulle circles, I’m making massive amounts of fudge. I just forgot about how much time it takes to make this much fudge.” Gen sighed. “Because I’m an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” said Whitney. “You’re an angel among women.” 

“Who is an idiot.” 

“You do make really good fudge,” Whitney said. “So you’re just making squares?” 

“Nah, I thought hearts.” She smiled to herself “Wouldn’t that be cute? Two-inch fudge hearts wrapped in wax paper and tucked in little white paper boxes wrapped with a ribbon.” She stopped and stared at her empty living room in horror. “I need to get boxes and ribbon.” 

“Can I get you the boxes and ribbon?” 

“Yeah, actually, you can. Thank you,” Gen said gratefully. “You’ll need to take my cookie cutter with you to make sure they fit, but thank you.” 

“I’ll pick it up tomorrow. What are her colors?” 

“I don’t know,” Gen admitted. She was frustrated with the entire affair. She knew the chaos was organized, but it didn’t feel that way right now. “Oh my gosh, didn’t she tell you that?” Whitney joked. When Gen made a disgusted noise into the phone that caused her cat Callie’s ears to prick up, Whitney soothed, “I’m meeting Angela tomorrow morning for coffee. I’ll ask her then.” 

“Can you pick up a few bags of those white paper crinkles and some stickers with their initials on them?” 

“What?” 

Gen racked her brain to find the word. “…Monogram! That’s it. Silver monogram stickers. Eirik’s last name is Osmond.” 

“Sure. How many?” 

“Two hundred— no, wait, double that, so we can put one on the outside of the box too. And two hundred boxes and enough ribbon to wrap around them and enough of the crinkled paper to cushion that many fudge hearts.” She thought hard. “Maybe four bags?” 

“I’ll get six and keep the receipt. We can return any we don’t open.” 

“You are a saint among women.” 

“Right,” Whitney said warmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow, angel Saint Whitney. Bye!” 

Whitney laughed. “Bye.” 

Gen put down her phone and sat still for a moment and started to pet Callie. Her mind wandered and drifted to thoughts about her ex. Well, hell, if she was going to start thinking about exes now she might as well close her eyes and point, because while the not so-nice ones were bad enough, even the “nice” guys had hurt her, really hurt her, when those relationships ended. The most recent one, though… he hadn’t been a bad person, really, because Gen refused to think of herself as someone who dated creeps. Gen’s ex had been generous, and patient, and held doors for her, and joked in ways that made her laugh for no good reason, and he respected her interests—until he wanted to talk about his (every fifteen seconds, it seemed like). Worst of all, he’d thought he knew her better than she knew herself. That, really, had been why Gen finally ended it. She’d say something, and her ex would correct her. He’d order for her at restaurants, and, if she tried to order for herself, he’d tell Gen she needed to “expand her horizons.” Or that she wouldn’t like what she asked for, or wasn’t Gen watching her weight? Or that she didn’t need to watch her weight. He knew everything. At least according to him he knew everything, and according to him he knew it better than Gen did. That had been the last straw on a big stack of disappointments. Gen knew best for Gen, damn it, and he had the gall to come along and say she was wrong? Her ex wasn’t psychic, and in a fit of righteous indignation Gen had decided that he wasn’t so great either and told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for both of them to move on. Naturally, he insisted that Gen didn’t mean that, and that was when Gen had stopped fantasizing about shaking him until she felt better and had started entertaining fantasies involving isolated countryside and shovels. She was through with dating. Even the nice people didn’t work out, so it was time she learned to be happy as Gen, not “Gen, somebody’s girlfriend.” 

Gen put him (and all the others) out of her mind and got up, trailed by the ever-optimistic Callie, and went into the kitchen to dig out her trusty fudge recipe. “I am not feeding you twice,” she scolded the cat affectionately. “You can just forget about convincing me I’ve forgotten to feed you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Gen was figuratively up to her waist in fudge when Whitney dropped by late the next morning. “It’s me!” Whitney yelled as she let herself in, arms laden with plastic bags full of ribbons and packages of paper crinkles and little silver stickers. She dropped them under the table, since the tabletop was full of cooling fudge, and wandered around to the stove. “Hey you,” Gen greeted her, glancing up quickly. “The cookie cutter’s on the counter there.” 

“Thanks.” Whitney tucked the heart-shaped cookie cutter into her bag. “I saw Angela. She said what a wonderful person you were for ‘totally saving her butt,’ her words, by agreeing to drive the flowers over.” Gen stopped stirring. 

“God dammit.” 

“Either the fudge just burned or you didn’t know about the flowers.” 

“Flowers,” Gen restrained herself from snarling, and started stirring the fudge with extreme prejudice. “I’ve got to figure out how they’ll fit in my car without falling over or crushing anything.” Gen scowled. “Forget that, I’ve got to figure out how they’re fitting in my car at all.” 

Whitney sighed. “You really need to call her.” Now it was Gen’s turn to sigh.

“After this batch is done. I don’t want to burn another one.” Whitney looked around the fudge-covered kitchen. 

“Holy shit, Gen, how much fudge have you made?” 

“Not enough,” Gen said dryly, rolling her eyes. “At least half of that hasn’t set right, so I can’t use it for the favors. It won’t hold together properly after I’ve cut it.” It galled her even to think about giving out less-than-perfect fudge as someone’s wedding favor. Whitney looked around the kitchen. There was fudge everywhere. Nearly everything Gen owned that would hold a flat layer of fudge one inch thick had been lined in parchment paper and filled with slabs of chocolate. “What are you doing with all of this? The scraps, I mean, and whatever’s not the right consistency.”

Gen looked around her fudge-filled kitchen as if it were a curious museum exhibit instead of something she was responsible for having made. “Give it to the fire stations, maybe.” 

“Police might eat it too,” Whitney suggested, tucking some short blonde hair behind her ear. “Schools. Or you could call Eirik.” Gen smiled slyly. “I want him to save his sweet tooth for cake.” 

“Oh, speaking of Eirik, he’s having a friend stay at their place while they are on their honeymoon. Hvitserk Lothbrok. Do you know him?” 

“Hvitserk?” Wait, wasn’t that the name of the— oh, there was no way she was telling Whitney that. Whitney would undoubtedly concoct some grand ideas about it being the perfect start of a love affair, like one of those sappy ’90s romantic comedies. “I don’t think so.” Gen turned off the heat and scraped the fudge out into her last prepared pan. 

“Well, he’s in town staying with Eirik. Helped them move Angela’s stuff out of her apartment and into storage.” 

“They weren’t able to find a bigger place in time?” Whitney shook her head. “Not before the leases expired, and Eirik’s place is cheaper. He and Angela have Hvitserk apartment sitting for them during the honeymoon and he’ll be driving over the tuxedos. Maybe you two could sit together at the reception and bond about being pack mules.” 

Unbelievable. Even without the meeting from hell story at the supermarket, Whitney was sketching out a virtual film script for Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts. “Whitney,” Gen said flatly, putting the pot into the sink, “you’re not setting me up, are you?” Whitney wrinkled her forehead, a picture of confused innocence. 

“Why would you think that?” 

“Because this sort of thing happens at weddings? I don’t know, it’s as if everyone decides they need to earn some kind of romantic merit badge by furthering the happiness of others.” 

“You do deserve to be happy…” Whitney trailed off, hopefully. 

“I’m perfectly happy as I am.” 

“You’re not, it’s been ages since your last date and you get this mopey look at romantic movies—” “Whitney.” Gen aimed a level stare at her friend. 

“Do not set me up with this Hvitserk guy.” 

“But—”

“No.” 

“Fine.” Then Whitney noticed a distinct lack of cat. “Where’s Callie?” 

“Locked in the bedroom.” Gen glanced at Whitney. “I have to keep those greedy paws off my fudge! I mean, Whitney. I have fudge cooling in the bathroom.” 

“The bathroom?” Whitney echoed, horrified. 

“In pans, but yes,” Gen said primly, turning back to the sink. “In the bathroom.” After she’d cleaned the daylights out of it. 

“What about the living room?” 

“You were just in the living room. It’s full.” Gen turned off the water and tidied herself up a bit, pulling out and redoing the bandana holding back her long, curly black hair. “Come on,” she said, working her way out of the kitchen. “I’m not kicking you out but I’ve got to get to the store. I need some more pans and I’m out of sugar and marshmallows.” 

“Want me to pick them up so you can have a break?” 

“No, I’ve got to get out of this apartment. If I stay here I’ll only clean the kitchen and mess it up again when I start the next batches.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll go get you the boxes.” 

Whitney glanced sideways at the fudge. She needn’t have bothered. Any direction Whitney would have cared to look would have confronted her with a pan of fudge. “And I’ll pick up some food for us for tonight,” Whitney finished. She shook her finger at Gen. “Speaking of which, you should eat something already, go grab yourself some lunch while you’re out, the day is half over! And call Angela!” 

“Yes, Mom,” Gen singsonged. Gen’s phone rang just as she was grabbing her purse. She fished it out. “Hello? Oh hi, hang on a second.” She tucked the phone to her shoulder. “It’s Angela,” she said to Whitney. “Convenient. I’ll see you later,” Whitney said and let herself out. Gen nodded and started for her coat. 

“Hey,” Gen said into the phone. “Hi!” Angela chirped, forcing the fake kind of cheerful tone people use when they’re holding onto sanity by their teeth and toenails. “Is this a bad time? You sound busy.” 

“I was just heading out to get some more sugar. I’m trying to get my shoes, my keys, and my head all at the same time.” She went through the door and headed out to her car. “What can I do you for?” 

“Will you have any extra room in your car?” Gen was so startled she actually stopped short. “What? Aren’t I supposed to be taking the cakes and the flowers? I was meaning to call you about that. Why isn’t the baker delivering the cakes? And I thought the flowers were being made by a florist only a few blocks from the hall!” 

“Oh my gosh, didn’t I tell you that?” Angela sounded like she was starting to panic. “I am so sorry.” 

“Hey, calm down, it’s okay, I just need to know what’s going on.” This did not seem to help. Instead Angela started talking faster than a professional auctioneer, as if by saying everything as quickly as possible, like ripping off a bandage, her problems would be over at the end of it. “I was going to get the flowers delivered but I found out that they wanted another two hundred and fifty dollars for it! I thought I told you, oh my gosh I am so sorry I think I’ve gone crazy. Two hundred and fifty dollars to drive three miles! On top of what we were paying for the flowers themselves! And Eirik’s aunt said she could get them wholesale and found all these mismatched white and clear vases at thrift shops and yard sales like in this one magazine photo and offered to do it for us so we wouldn’t have to spend the money to have them arranged—” Gen tuned Angela out enough to get the car door open and settle into her seat. 

This, she reflected, was probably not a good idea, but if Angela’s track record held true then she had already told someone else the information Gen actually needed. “—and so we’re going to arrange them ourselves at the hotel. I swear, I really, really thought I’d told you all this last month. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“No…” Gen said, taking the coward’s way out. Idiot, she called herself. Oh well, someone will no doubt fill me in on what I’ve just agreed to.  

“Are you sure? I won’t be able to help you, I’ll be busy—” So how does that translate into “we” are arranging the flowers? And can’t the wholesaler deliver them to the hotel? Gen wondered—but not aloud. 

“No, I’ll ask someone to help me and Eirik’s aunt with the flower arranging. That will be fine, really,” Gen breathed, while inwardly squirming and thinking herself an idiot. “So the aunt’s already ordered them?” She listened for a break in Angela’s stressed-out tirade to cut in. “Angela, here’s the thing, I do not have any room in my car whatsoever. I have room for Whitney and me, for the favors, and maybe for my suitcase. I can’t take the flowers or anything else, I’m sorry.” 

“Are you sure?” Angela asked, sounding doubtful and desperate. 

“Honey, after the fudge I’m lucky there’s enough room for me in my car. I’m going to be driving with my suitcase in my lap.” 

“I thought your bakery had a van?” 

“Angela, that is the bakery’s van. They need it for deliveries. I cannot use it for personal business, especially not out of town, and especially not out of town on Valentine’s Day. Yes, I’m sure.” 

“But how are my parents going to get to the wedding?” Angela wailed, and Gen, who had just started her car, stared hard out the windshield and shut off the engine again. “What? What do you mean, how are your parents getting to the wedding? I thought your parents were riding with cousin Whoever when he drove through town on his way there.” 

“He can’t make it any more! I mean really, really can’t make it, not just being a jerk can’t make it. He’s got kidney stones and is on so much Demerol he can’t think straight and everybody else is flying in and…” Gen could hear Angela taking deep breaths over the phone. “What about Whitney?” 

“I told you Whitney’s riding up with me and taking the train back, and even if she was driving, her car only has two seats and I imagine she’ll be in one of them. Let me think.”   
Couldn’t Eirik solve this? Gen thought. The way I hear it the only thing he’s got on his plate are the tuxedos and the leftover cake. You’re going to be married, isn’t that all about sharing the woes and pooling resources and—wait. “Angela,” Gen said slowly, “isn’t Eirik’s friend Hvitserk driving over the tuxedos?” 

“Yeah, he has a va—” Angela stopped. “He has a van,” she finished hopefully. 

“Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” 

“Do you know Hvitserk?” 

Only by collision. “Nope. But Whitney said he’s apartment sitting for you, right? He’d probably love to drive your parents.” 

“Oh my gosh, thank you. I’ve got to call Mom. Oh, and a bridesmaid’s brother is a groomsman and he doesn’t have a ride either—” 

“Um,” Gen said. 

“This is such a lifesaver. I’ve gotta go, bye!” The phone went dead. Gen lowered her cell phone and looked at it for a second or two, then put it away in her purse and restarted the car. Well, she thought, wincing a little internally, I’m sure someone will tell Hvitserk whatever Angela is about to tell somebody who isn’t Hvitserk.


	3. Chapter 3

Hvitserk found himself once again at the grocery store. He’d left the first time before getting everything he needed and man could not live on frozen burritos alone. Maybe some muffin mix or something? If Eirik had any food in the apartment he had hidden it better than his financial information. He paused on his way for the shelves. Well hello. It was the woman who’d run into him the other day… Gen, her name was Gen, and even looking obviously harried there was there was no denying she was completely gorgeous. Really, really pretty. Why hadn’t he noticed she was that pretty the first time they ran into each other? Maybe because it really hurt when she crashed into you, Hvitserk thought wryly. The cart thing had been the perfect painful cap on a long, frustrating day. 

Angela’s couch had to have been made of concrete or something given how much it weighed, and Eirik’s couch wasn’t comfortable to sleep on. Plus his friend seemed constitutionally unable not to wake Hvitserk up when he left in the morning; it seemed as if the quieter Eirik was trying to be, the noisier he actually was. Hvitserk supposed he had taken all that out on Gen. (Maybe more than kind of, he admitted.) So he hoped he hadn’t completely alienated her by snarling at her the last time. Gen was wrestling an obscene amount of sugar into her grocery cart and the motions showed some very flattering aspects of that curvaceous figure of hers. No, no, Hvitserk thought, amused and appreciative, reach for the bag of sugar on the bottom shelf. Yes, that one. Sugar stowed, Gen straightened up, checking her list. Aaaand that’s my cue to leave, Hvitserk thought, slipping back the way he’d come. It was all very well and fine to appreciate the scenery but not so fine to get caught. I’ll get the muffin mix on my way out. So it was kind of funny when, a few moments later he felt someone staring at him as he rummaged through a top shelf in the freezer section. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to find Gen about fifteen feet away, watching him. 

Hvitserk ducked deeper into the freezer to hide a smile. He stretched a little, reaching for a box in the back and, yes, posing, even though he’d never admit it out loud. He could see Gen there, an indistinct shape through the frost coating the open freezer door. Enough stalling, though. It was childish (and it was getting awfully cold). Hvitserk snagged a few random TV dinners and turned around. Gen was gone. Huh. Hvitserk settled his items into his hand basket slowly. Was she really checking me out, then, or was I just imagining that? Maybe Gen was avoiding him, embarrassed about hitting him with the shopping cart last night. Or maybe she just didn’t like him and wanted nothing to do with him. Which was too bad, because Gen was really pretty and Hvitserk could use the company. He’d been thinking about her since the last time, and… well, now he was curious.   
And I’m awesome. I mean… I am. I’m really, really not perfect, but I’m still pretty great and I deserve to be shared with people who appreciate me. Apparently Gen was not one of those people. Lost in thought, Hvitserk wandered blindly towards the checkout. Oh, right, he caught himself, the muffin mix— Hvitserk pivoted suddenly back towards the baking aisle when someone heading a cart towards the checkout clipped him straight in the ankle. “Ow!” Gen. 

“Oh no, I’m so— Hvitserk?” 

“Yes? Hi.” He smiled, wincing as he rubbed his ankle. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” 

“I am so sorry,” Gen said, flushing a charming shade of red. “I mean… twice?”

“Well, this time was sort of my fault. I was distracted and cut across three lanes of traffic, metaphorically speaking.” Hvitserk hefted his carry-basket and shrugged. “At least I’m even now.” 

“What?” 

“You hit my other ankle this time.” He pulled up the cuffs of his jeans, one after the other, to show today’s red mark and yesterday’s bruise. He looked up to find Gen staring with what looked like a mix of embarrassment and horror. “I’m sorry, I really am,” Gen said, hazel eyes meeting Hvitserk’s, and wow, yes, they were pretty too. 

“No, it’s okay. Mostly my fault, and even if it wasn’t,” Hvitserk grinned, “I try not to stay mad at people for accidents. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Gen said, smiling back. “Sounds like a good philosophy.” 

“It works for me. At least, I like my life a lot better with it than without it.” And that’s about as far into the matter he was willing to go with someone he barely knew, regardless of how pretty she was. “Anyway, I guess I need to go and find some muffin mix. My host has no food.” 

“I heard you were staying with Eirik?” That stopped Hvitserk from walking away.

“Yeah? I am, but… do you know Eirik?” 

“I do,” Gen smiled. “I’m good friends with Angela, Eirik’s fiancée, and I’m helping with the wedding, so word travels.” Hvitserk laughed. “Small world. It’s nice of you to help with the wedding. Can I ask what you’re doing?” 

“Making the favors, helping with the flowers, and, once we’re there, transporting the cakes to the hall. I think. I don’t know for sure yet, so I have to call around and figure it out.” 

“That’s really nice of you—wait, cakes?” Surely he hadn’t heard that right.

“Oh yes,” Gen answered him with an exaggerated air of serenity. “Cakes. All eighteen of them.” Eighteen. Wow. “That’s a lot of cake,” was all Hvitserk could think of to say. 

“Quite.” 

“Well… sheesh, I kind of feel like a slacker now for just taking the tuxes.” Hvitserk rubbed his neck, sheepish, and shrugged. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yes,” Gen said, and suddenly she looked… odd. Distant. Almost wary. “Drive safely.” 

“You too.” He scowled at her retreating figure, wondering what he’d said wrong. Soon his phone’s ringtone interrupted his thoughts. “Hello?” 

“Hvitserk?” The voice on the line was female and sounded about two and a half seconds away from meltdown. “It’s Angela.” Which explained the meltdown. 

“Hi,” he said, shouldering the phone and settling in the baking aisle out of the way of other shoppers. “What do you need?” 

“Oh my god, Hvitserk, thank you so much for taking my parents, I didn’t know what I was going to do, I—” Hvitserk stared blankly at the canned frosting. His thoughts were in a holding pattern around wait, what? Parents? and Angela didn’t seem to need to breathe. “I’m getting you such a good present on the honeymoon. You have no idea what it means to me that you’re driving them, I—” he could hear Angela starting to cry. Hvitserk started to panic. Angela, though, wasn’t about to let tears stop her from talking. “I’m just so grateful!” Well. Now Hvitserk was driving her parents. 

 

Eirik was rummaging in his own refrigerator when Hvitserk got back to the apartment and let himself in with the spare key. Brave man: Hvitserk wouldn’t have gone into Eirik’s refrigerator without spelunking gear and a full bio-hazmat team. “I really hope you’re cleaning that,” he said, setting down his grocery bags on the couch. It was safer than the counter. 

Eirik finally emerged with a soda and gave Hvitserk a look. “You sound like my mom.” 

“No, your mom would scream. Anyone’s mother would scream, and possibly call Animal Control. I don’t know what you’ve got in that plastic bag, dude, but I swear to God it waved at me last night.” Hvitserk pulled a soda of his own out of the bag of groceries and cracked it open. “Half of all marriages end in divorce, Eirik. You really do not want Angela to see that refrigerator.” 

Eirik flopped onto the couch and rolled his eyes. “She’s seen it, funny man.”

“And?” 

“And she wants to buy a new refrigerator.” 

Hvitserk snorted. “I don’t blame her. Seriously, though, don’t you like me? First you make me sleep on your crummy old couch, then you get me to move all your wife-to-be’s stuff into storage, and so far all I have to show for it is a sore back and a cinnamon roll.” 

“A kick-ass cinnamon roll.” Hvitserk glowered. 

“Angela’s couch alone is worth two kick-ass cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon rolls I don’t have to wake up at five thirty for. C’mon, Eirik. We leave tomorrow, and that thing will sit like the cauldron of evil it is, stewing up horrors while no one is here.” Eirik was smirking at him. “I’m serious,” Hvitserk insisted. “Then, after it’s had five days to plot, you’ll be on your honeymoon and I’ll come back to face it. Alone. I’m going have to live with that while you’re gone, lying awake at night, wondering what’s going to come out of that thing to kill me.” Eirik just snorted. “At least shovel that monster out before you leave,” Hvitserk pushed. “It’s real simple: open door, pitch everything in trash.” 

“See, why would I clean the fridge?” Eirik grinned. “I thought that’s what I had you for.” 

“I’m not current on my tetanus shots,” Hvitserk deadpanned. “And if it kills me Angela will kill you, because I am driving her parents to the wedding.” 

“You are?” 

“Apparently. I found out…” he checked his watch “…thirty-five minutes ago.”

“Hey, thanks man,” Eirik said. It seemed that the part about “last minute favor” hadn’t even registered with him. “I’d heard about her cousin getting sick.”

“Right,” Hvitserk said, trying not to be grouchy about it. “So you can do battle with the cauldron of horrors that is your fridge. You’ll have Angela to nurse you back to health if something attacks you. Go for it. I’ll stay back here, ready to call emergency services.” 

“It’s not that bad.. Some of that stuff’s still good, you know.” 

“Like what? The light bulb?” 

“I’ve got ketchup.” 

“With hair on it.” 

“There’s soda!” 

“It’s corrupted by association,” Hvitserk said firmly, patting his newly-bought six-pack. 

“You’re such a whiner.” 

“Right, right,” Hvitserk said. “Insult the guy staying in your home for two weeks. Unsupervised.” 

“You need a date,” Eirik groused. 

“Yes, I probably do, but I am going to a wedding soon,” Hvitserk said. “I hear they’re good for meeting people.” Eirik grinned at him. “Convenient.” They were interrupted by Angela’s key in the lock. 

Both men watched her come in, kick her shoes off and hang up her coat, all while talking on her cell phone. She hung up the phone, took a deep, deep breath, then turned around and smiled at them both. Hvitserk rated it a six out of ten on the Stress Scale, which he thought was pretty good, comparatively. This morning she’d been at a nine. “How’s Mission Control?” Eirik asked.

Angela buried her face in her hands and sighed. “The baker and the caterers have different ideas of delivery time.” 

“Sucks,” Eirik said, holding his arm out to her. “Could your mom help? Could my mom help?” Something tickled Hvitserk’s brain. Hadn’t Gen said she was taking over the cakes? 

“I thought a friend of yours was picking up the cakes?” he asked. Angela looked at him blankly. “What? No, they’re being delivered. Did somebody offer to do that?” 

“I ran into someone in the store, and turns out she’s a friend of yours? Gen Racine?” Angela’s face lit up in smiles. “Gen! Yes, she’s making the favors. It’s so sweet of her, too, since she’s super busy with the bakery and all.” 

“Bakery?” Angela nodded. “Gen is the main baker and part owner of that bakery we took you to for breakfast, remember? Sweet Favors? Amazing cinnamon rolls?” So that was why Gen had looked familiar: the shopping-cart run-in hadn’t been the first time he’d seen her. She was the baker who created order from chaos using a loud voice, a wide smile, and a tray full of fresh baked goods. 

“The other owner is a charming old man,” Angela said, “He’s usually there at lunch or whenever they’re not too busy. He does all the taxes and other accounting things. That’s his   
daughter who was running the counter. Gen runs the back. Normally she wouldn’t have been able to take so much time off but they’ve been training this new girl, I think she just graduated from high school—are you laughing at me?” she interrupted herself and whirled on Eirik, mock-scolding. Eirik was, indeed, chuckling at her.   
Angela shook her finger at him. “Don’t you get complacent just because I’m marrying you, mister.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Anyway.” Angela composed herself, and looked at Hvitserk curiously. “I didn’t know you’d met Gen.” 

Hvitserk shrugged. “We started talking in the checkout line. She thinks she’s supposed to pick up the cakes.” 

Angela’s eyes got wide. “Oh my gosh I forgot to tell her.” Angela whipped her cell phone out and was immediately on it.

“Gen? Gen—no. Oh my gosh, Gen, I forgot to tell you, I am so so sorry, it—what? The cakes. No, the cakes are being delivered. Yes—no, the time is still driving me crazy, the cakes are supposed to get there before the caterers not after, I mean, I know it’s Valentine’s Day, but they’re centerpieces, we need them before the reception!” Hvitserk snorted, entertained. 

Angela made all kinds of faces on the phone. It was easy to imagine the other half of the conversation, to imagine Gen alternately soothing and interrupting her friend, maybe while stirring something. She’d said she was making fudge. Hvitserk realized he didn’t actually know how fudge was made. Was fudge baked? Did you stir fudge in a bowl under your arm, or was that cake frosting? The idea was appealing, either way. Gen’s curves, that sweet smile of hers, maybe some flour dusting her long black hair… and cookies. Definitely cookies. He should have gotten some cookie dough, too. 

Angela was still on the phone with Gen. “You’ll call the bakery? Oh thank you. Well, the ceremony is at ten, and the reception starts at eleven-thirty so… no, I don’t know if someone would be at the reception hall at ten thirty. I mean, the hotel has staff but who knows if they’re responsible, and Gen, if you say ‘wedding planner’ I am going to cry, I hear enough of that from my sister! …Nine-thirty? Would that be enough time? But… Gen this sounds so horrible, but I don’t like my cousin. I mean, I love her, I do, but she’s so bossy and has to have everything just perfect and—and… oh, oh I see. Yes, that would keep her from fluffing my veil at the ceremony… I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ll call her. No, I’ll do it right now. You’re saving my life, again.” Angela hung up and immediately started dialing another number. 

“Hi! It’s me,” she said, full of false cheer. “Listen, I know it’s sort of the last minute, but could you do me a huge favor?” Hvitserk was amused to note that Angela plastered on a big fake smile… for the phone. He looked over at Eirik, and Eirik shrugged, smiling fondly at his fiancée. 

“Speaking of cake,” Hvitserk said, dry as a martini, “eighteen cakes? And a wedding cake?” 

“I like cake!” Eirik protested. “And have you seen some of those things? They’re pretty and they’re more useful than flowers. People can eat them.” 

“But you have flowers too.”

Eirik waved his hand in dismissal. “Weddings are all about compromise.”

“Getting both is a compromise?” 

“It is if you’ve heard the family arguments.” Hvitserk was willing to concede that. “But that much cake?” 

“Sure,” Eirik shrugged. “I don’t know what the big deal is, they’re just eight-inches across. That’s not that big.” Hvitserk rolled his eyes. 

“I think you fail at math and everyone will be eating cake for breakfast.”

Eirik grinned at him and raised his soda in a toast. “Breakfast of champions.”

Eventually Angela hung up the phone and sort of… wilted, but the Stress Scale looked like it was down to a three. She sighed, and the sigh was almost bigger than she was. “Ready to go?” Eirik and Angela had planned a romantic dinner for two on the harbor. 

“I just feel like there’s something I’m forgetting,” she complained. 

“Don’t worry, babe,” Eirik assured her. “I think you’ve got everything covered. And if not, we’ll figure out what it is once it catches fire.” She threw her cell phone at him. “You’re not   
funny.” 

She looked at Hvitserk. “Is that new soda?” she asked, hopeful. Hvitserk pulled a can out of the grocery bag and held it out. “So you’ll share with her and not with me?” Eirik asked, faking hurt. 

“You can deal with the monster you have made,” Hvitserk said. “She doesn’t deserve the horrors of your refrigerator. She’s a lady.” 

“Thank you, Hvitserk,” Angela said sweetly. She paused on her way to Eirik, put her hand on Hvitserk’s shoulder and squeezed. “And thank you so, so much for all your help. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” Hvitserk smiled up at her. He was used to doing people favors, but being really appreciated for them… that was, sadly, somewhat rare. He liked to help people, but he did it so often that a lot of the time it felt like his help was just something in the background, taken for granted. Water’s wet, the sky is blue, and Hvitserk helps people. Angela clearly didn’t take it for granted, and the honest gratitude in her voice and on her face warmed and loosened something inside him. This was why he liked helping people. “You’re welcome.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gen and Whitney loaded up Gen’s car far too early the next morning, but February wasn’t known as a good time to drive long distances. Well, it was far too early in the morning according to Whitney. Gen, being a baker, was used to getting up bright and early. Nine a.m. was practically mid-day. What Gen wasn’t used to was staying up late, though, and she’d been up past her bedtime yawning into her fudge (or her packing) for three days running. 

She was only part-listening to Whitney’s sleepy chatter as they pulled onto the freeway, fully equipped with drive-through coffee. Gen wondered about Hvitserk. Angela most likely hadn’t called him to ask about transporting her parents by the time Gen and Hvitserk had run into each other, literally, a second time. Well, maybe Angela had and Hvitserk just didn’t see any reason to mention it. Gen really hoped Angela had called him before her parents and some groomsmen just showed up—oh, certainly she had. Hvitserk was staying with Eirik. 

She’d probably told Hvitserk in person. Probably. He seemed nice, Gen supposed… well, he must be if Angela liked him, but Gen was only guessing that Angela liked him. He was Eirik’s friend, and while Eirik was a very nice man, you didn’t exactly have to be a stellar person to be responsible enough to water the plants and get the mail and lock the door behind you. She thought he’d seemed a bit short-tempered. I did hit him with my shopping cart, but… he was kinda snappy even after I apologized. Did I run him over on a really bad day or is he always like that? He seemed a lot nicer on the second day and he’d had more reason to be annoyed by my lousy shopping cart driving skills. So what’s going on with him? 

“I mean, he’s cute, but which one is real? The first guy with the short temper, or the second one who smiles things off and doesn’t stay mad at accidents? But he did ask to start over the first time, and was much nicer then… Ugh, I just can’t stand two-faced people. I wish I knew how close he and Eirik are…” 

“Wait, you know Hvitserk?” Whitney’s question took Gen aback. How the heck did she know—Oh crap, did I say that last part aloud? Gen winced. I need  
more sleep if I can’t tell when I’ve lost my internal monologue. 

“Um, yeah. I ran into him at the store.” 

“What, in the checkout line? How’d you know it was him?” 

“No, I hit him with my cart, Whitney.” 

“What? That was him? You didn’t tell me it was Hvitserk you ran over!”  

“It’s worse. I hit him twice. Once per trip.” Whitney looked with exaggerated wariness at the steering wheel. “You sure you should you be driving?” 

“Very funny. He’s going to be at the wedding, Whitney.” 

“So what? It’s not like you have to sit with him every moment or something. Was he a jerk?” 

“I don’t know. He was really snappy the first time I hit him—” 

“Yeah, getting mad at someone who rammed a shopping cart into you is totally over-reacting.” 

“Shut up! It’s just he was all cranky the first time and really nice to me on the second, and it’s bugging me that I can’t figure it out.” Gen frowned. 

“Maybe he had a really bad day. Maybe—wait, when was this? Day before yesterday?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s when they moved all Angela’s stuff.” 

“Moving furniture doesn’t give someone free license to be rude, Whitney. And he’s going to the wedding.” 

“It’s not like you to let this bother you,” Whitney said. 

She was turned in her seat, half leaning against the car door. “It’s not like me to make three hundred and fifty fudge hearts, either,” Gen retorted. 

“Oh please. You’ll do anything to help your friends no matter how much you may moan about it. This is just ‘you’ on a slightly larger scale.” Gen stared at the road and pouted. Whitney didn’t stop. “What about moving Jamelia in the middle of the night?” 

“You did that too.” 

“Of course I did, but I asked her why. You showed up with your car and a roll of trash bags and a badass look in your eye at three-thirty in the morning without any more   
explanation than ‘can you come get me?’“ Gen sniffed. “I thought about calling the cops.” 

“I’m kind of surprised you didn’t. Or that you didn’t bring your ex-boyfriend.” Gen glanced away from the road to shoot Whitney a fast glare. “What, the hockey player?” Wow, that was a long time ago. He’d been sweet… best break-up speech Gen had ever had. “I never thought about it. Besides, you don’t call your ex at three in the morning unless you’re drunk and about to be put up on the Internet as an example of What Not To Do.” 

“You do when he’s six-five and two hundred and fifty pounds and your friend’s just called you to come move her out of her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s place at three a.m.” Well, Whitney had a point there. 

Whitney had brought her then-boyfriend and his roommate. “So… seriously,” Whitney asked. “What’s up with this Hvitserk guy? You’ve just spent the last forty-some miles griping about him and you didn’t even do that about the Jerk.”

Gen looked darkly at the cars in front of her. The Jerk was her most recent ex. “We’re not talking about the Jerk.” 

“We’re talking about something,” Whitney insisted, “because you’re driving me nuts.” 

“No, I’m driving you to the wedding.” 

“Ha-ha.” But Whitney was smiling. Gen turned on the radio. Whitney had a point, though. It wasn’t like her to complain so much about one person, let alone someone she didn’t know well and wasn’t stuck with. What was it about Hvitserk? Well, besides those beautiful green eyes… his patience after getting run over the second time… amazing butt… that little quirk his lips made when he was probably trying not to laugh at Gen… Okay, this wasn’t helping either. She sighed. She glanced at Whitney—who was watching her as if she was waiting for something. “What?” 

“You know what. I’m just trying to wait you out.” 

Gen sighed. “I just…I have no explanations, Whitney. This man…the first time I ran into him—” 

“Was this the first time you met him or the first time you ran your shopping cart into him?” 

“Um.” Gen flushed. “Same thing, really.” 

“Look,” Whitney reasoned, “you’re both going to the wedding. It’s not complicated. Sit with him at the reception and chat him up, maybe ask him out.” 

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not? Unless you don’t want to sit with him?” Gen remained mute. Whitney sniffed. 

“Weddings are practically made to get people together. And it’s on Valentine’s Day. You really can’t lose.” 

“Of course I can!” Gen insisted tartly. “He had two completely different reactions. He could be crazy!” 

“You’re the one who hit him with a shopping cart, honey.” 

“But I don’t want to date anyone!” Gen whined. “I’m all set on being happy as my own person!” Silence. Gen glanced at Whitney. Whitney was staring at her as if she had two heads. “Okay, what now?” 

“Gen… friend of mine… do you ever listen to yourself?” 

“Not often, no.” 

“Okay. Because that sounded really stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid to be happy being single!” 

“No, it isn’t, but we’ve been talking about—okay, you know what? We’ve been talking in a circle about some man you met in the grocery store twice and hit with your shopping cart twice, who is also coming to the wedding, whom you seem to like, and you’re not going to ask him out because you don’t want to date anyone. Did I get it right?” 

“…Mostly.” 

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with dating—no, listen. There’s nothing wrong with being single and there’s nothing wrong with seeing someone. If it’s not right to hold up being in a relationship as some kind of merit badge, then it’s not right to hold up not being in a relationship either.” 

“Tell that to Valentine’s Day,” Gen muttered. Whitney sighed and turned up the radio. 

 

Hvitserk leaned against the side of the van while half his passengers stood around the parking lot and made small talk. They were waiting for Angela’s mom to finish in the bathroom. Eirik’s future parents-in-law were polite, and the groomsmen were cool, and everyone was remarkably patient about being crammed into a van with a wedding’s-worth of tuxedoes and more snack food than was probably sane, with more on the way as soon as that groomsman finished raiding the service station’s snack racks. Which was fine, and he’d taken orders, insisting on buying everyone a bottled drink for the road. 

Hvitserk chose to think of it as an apology for a hundred and forty miles of nacho-cheese corn chips and rustling plastic. Maybe an apology for this morning, too, but it was going to take a lot more than a bottle of soda to even out that one. Everybody was doing their best to be nice to each other in what had to be the crappiest vacation he’d ever had. He was never telling Eirik or Angela he’d thought that. So, no, his passengers weren’t the problem, not even Mr. Corn Chips or the other groomsman, King of the Unintentionally Awkward Story. Actually, Hvitserk was kind of looking forward to hearing what that guy had to say about the wedding, like a sort of socially oblivious karma. 

He hoped someone got drunk enough to let that guy make a toast—and hey, there was another not-that-nice thought not to share with the class. The thing was… he thought he was done with this stuff. Bending over backwards just because he was lonely or didn’t want people to stop hanging out with him or something pathetic like that. He knew his friends were good people and they wouldn’t do that, so no problem, right? They only did this because he let them, so really, Hvitserk had nobody to be angry with but himself, and he was done with being angry at himself. Problem solved. 

He was happy to house-sit for his friend during his honeymoon, so when Eirik had called last month to ask him, he’d easily agreed. Yes, sleeping on the couch was uncomfortable, but it was only for a couple of days until they all left for the wedding and the hotel, and yes, Eirik had no food in the house and a science experiment instead of a refrigerator, but again, just a couple of days. Hvitserk could live on frozen food until the bride and groom left, and once they got back, well, Eirik’s kitchen and the horrors therein were Angela’s problem. 

There was even Gen, that cute grocery-store-demolition-driver with the curly black hair. Hvitserk was looking forward to seeing more of her since it seemed that she lived near enough to Eirik’s place to share the same grocery store. Maybe they could grab coffee sometime. Then Angela had called to ask for yet another favor and it seemed he was as much of a doormat as ever. How could he have said no, though, when the bride was so clearly two steps away from panic as she thanked him, tearfully thanked him, for driving her parents? Not asked, thanked. Effusively, promising him a really nice gift when they got back from the honeymoon for being “such a lifesaver, you have no idea what this means to me.” Hvitserk had thought he’d already had a pretty good grasp of how important it was to a bride to have her parents at her wedding, but he’d gotten a better one when she’d proceeded to tell him how much it meant to her while he’d stood awkwardly in the baking aisle next to the canned frosting, feeling uncomfortable. 

There was no way he could have said no. Eirik would have never spoken to him again, and he’d have been right: what kind of jerk would turn that down? So after Eirik and Angela had gone out for dinner Hvitserk had sighed and taken his van to be vacuumed instead of spending his evening making muffins. 

One of the groomsmen—Mr. Corn Chips—had picked up the tuxes from the rental place and was keeping them because he’d had somewhere to store them and Eirik (and by extension, Hvitserk) didn’t. Corn Chips just didn’t have a way to transport them. It turned out he didn’t have a way to transport himself, either, and that was a really nice surprise too. “Eirik and Angela didn’t tell you about me and the tuxes?” the guy had asked, looking stunned.  Hvitserk had just smiled. “It’s okay,” he’d said, when Mr. Corn Chips had tried, awkwardly, to apologize. “It’s not your fault.” 

Well, Mr. Corn Chips hadn’t told Hvitserk this either, come to think of it. He could have called, or said something about it when they talked about what time Hvitserk was picking up the tuxes, or—okay, maybe it was his fault. A little. He couldn’t stand liars, but this wasn’t exactly lying. It was lying by omission if they’d deliberately not told him but Hvitserk had no way to know that, and it really didn’t seem like Eirik to be that manipulative. Hvitserk knew that once you started to suspect people too much, you might never stop… so he’d sighed, and thought the best of them (and how sad was it that thinking of people as forgetful or as idiots was an improvement over thinking of them as deliberately cruel and manipulative?), and said nothing. 

He probably should have said something, but what on earth would they have done about it? Not driven the guy to the wedding? That wasn’t an option. He’d just helped the guy hang up all the tuxes on the rack he’d put up across the back of his van and asked if they were ready to go. “No, the other guy’s running late.” There was yet another guy? Great. Hvitserk began to feel like the driver in a clown car. 

 

“Are we all ready?” the bride’s mother, emerging from the service station, asked. The question brought Hvitserk back to the present moment from his ruminations on this morning’s events. Mr. Corn Chips trailed behind and Hvitserk was relieved to see that the guy’s haul fit in just two bags, their drinks included.   
“We are now,” he said, with a smile at the bride’s mom, and gallantly helped her into her seat. Brooding wasn’t going to change anything and he was getting tired of it. He was going to think about other things for a while. Like Gen, maybe. He pulled onto the highway, listening to the bride’s father expertly redirect one of the King’s stories before the guy got to the uncomfortable part, and smiled. Yeah, he’d think about Gen. 

 

It was dark when Gen reached the highway exit that would lead them to their hotel. It had taken longer than expected to drive there, and it wasn’t even all that late… February was so unfair. “Can we please get dinner before unloading the car? It’s cold. Nothing’s going to melt.” 

“No. Hotel first.” 

“Gen, I’m starving and the entire car smells like fudge. Do you know how unfair this is? Really?” 

“I have to pee, Whitney.” 

“You can pee at the restaurant!” 

“We’re almost there.” They had better be almost there, otherwise Gen was going to start having bladder-induced road rage. 

“Fudge!” 

“Pee.” 

“Ugh.” Whitney pulled out her cell phone and started texting. Gen ignored her, scanning for the correct street name. “There!” She pulled in front of the main doors and threw the car in park. 

“Watch–the-car-thank-you-bye!” Ten minutes later, Gen walked back through the lobby — and froze. Hvitserk was waiting at her car. With two guys and a luggage cart. 

“Um, hi,” Gen said, moving tentatively to her car. 

“Hey there.” Hvitserk’s grin was open and friendly. “Glad you made it okay.” He introduced the two men, but Gen wasn’t really listening: she caught “groomsmen” but not their names. 

“What are you doing here?” Gen asked stupidly, then stopped, wanting to kick herself. “Sorry, sorry, long trip. How was your drive?” 

“Um, cozy,” Hvitserk said carefully, expression fixed and polite. “Turns out I was driving Angela’s parents and these two guys to the wedding.” …Oops. 

“I texted Angela from the car,” Whitney said, smirking at Gen. “And she sent our knights with shining luggage cart here to help us unload.” 

“Well, seeing as how I gave these guys a lift to the wedding,” Hvitserk said in a friendly tone, “I drafted them into service. They don’t mind, do you guys?” Gen almost felt embarrassed. Maybe a little more than ‘almost.’ “Don’t worry,” Hvitserk assured her, perhaps mistaking the reason why Gen’s feathers were ruffled, “I know better than to ask you to let this stuff out of your sight. We won’t touch a thing unless you tell us to.” He gave Gen a significant look. “But I’m pushing the cart.” 

“Hey!” Gen protested. Hvitserk just raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. I mean, I am, really.” She winced. “Your ankles are safe. Promise.” 

“Ankles?” one of the groomsmen asked, and Hvitserk snorted. “I’ll explain later. Now, what goes out first?” 

 

All the boxes of fudge and their luggage made it upstairs safely despite Hvitserk’s making a show of not letting Gen within touching distance of the luggage cart. “Oh, come on!” Gen practically yelled when they got to the elevator and Hvitserk had made sure both groomsmen and Whitney were standing between Gen and the cart. “I’m not going to damage the fudge! I loaded all that fudge into the car in the first place!” 

“It’s not the fudge I’m concerned about,” Hvitserk retorted with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m not going to run you over with the stupid luggage cart!” 

“Y’know, I want to believe you, Gen,” Hvitserk said mournfully as he carefully pushed the cart into the hotel room Gen was sharing with Whitney, “but my ankles are suspicious. You see, they’ve been hurt in the past.” 

“Just get out of here.” Gen scowled, unloading fudge from the cart. 

“I need the luggage cart back. The front desk lady is scary and I don’t want to make her mad.” 

“Thanks, guys, for all your help,” Whitney said warmly. Gen flushed. Oh yeah. Manners. 

“I’m sorry, thank you gentlemen,” she said to the two groomsmen. “It was really sweet of you to help out.” 

“No problem,” one of the groomsmen said, holding the door open for Hvitserk and the luggage cart. “Any time.” Hvitserk grinned and the door swung shut. 

Gen turned to Whitney, who was grinning back. “Traitor,” she said. “Oh come on, Cranky, if you really ran him over twice in the store then you deserved it,” Whitney scolded gently. “Now let’s go. Food. Now. I’m starving and you’re snapping at people.” She paused. “Just as soon as I use the bathroom.” Gen laughed. 

 

Gen lay in bed that night, staring at the hulking shapes of luggage and boxes of fudge pans stacked against the walls. Whitney was zonked out in the other bed, festooned in earplugs and a sleep mask decorated with a ridiculous set of eyelashes. If I weren’t a better person, Gen thought idly, looking at Whitney’s slack-jawed face in the dim light seeping through the hotel curtains, I’d take pictures of her like this. Then again, maybe not. Whitney had plenty of worse pictures of Gen and could threaten her that they were ripe for vengeful posting on Facebook—and Whitney would totally do it, too.  

Gen was avoiding the reason why, tired as she was, she was still awake. The hotel room was strange and the fan was loud, turned up as high as it would go to block stray noise, and Gen was cold. The fan made a convenient scapegoat, but that was all it was, really. A scapegoat. The bed was lonely with only Gen in it, the open expanse translating to her psyche as ‘cold,’ somehow. She didn’t notice so much at home with Callie’s warm weight on the covers, the soft cat snores and the cat’s inexplicable skill at always leaving Gen nowhere to put her feet. Rolling over for the dozenth time, Gen gave up on schooling her thoughts and let her mind drift. 

She thought of Hvitserk, his smile, the way those green eyes of his crinkled at the corners. The second time she’d run into him (before actually running into him) at the store he’d been head and shoulders into the freezer section as if finding the perfect TV dinner was some kind of treasure hunt. He’d stretched for the high things, the lines of his arm flowing powerfully down to his muscular shoulders, just a shape behind the quickly frosting-over freezer door. Gen imagined how his skin must have been tightening from the freezer blast. His back muscles tensing and relaxing, the plane of his hip, the lines of his body from searching hand down to his legs, one planted, one held out slightly for balance… She’d have accused Hvitserk of posing if it wouldn’t have meant admitting that Gen had been ogling. 

And when would they have occasion to talk about that, anyway? ‘I couldn’t help but notice you in the freezer section’ might be an unusual chat-up line, but it wasn’t likely to just come up in conversation. Perversely Gen was both grateful and disappointed. Grateful, because she didn’t need this. She didn’t need a boyfriend to be happy; she was happy enough on her own. Hadn’t the last several failed relationships proved that? Even if she and Hvitserk paired off somehow, even if they were good together, that just meant it would hurt even more when it ended. She wasn’t going to examine the disappointment.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone was knocking on the door. Hvitserk flailed blindly for the alarm clock, squinted at it, and scowled. Six forty-five. He’d been a good person. He’d played bus driver, he’d unloaded cakes, he’d gotten to sleep six and a half hours ago, which didn’t sound that bad but was still horribly unfair. Eirik was at the door. Hvitserk glared at him as best he could through eyes that didn’t want to stay completely open. 

“Good morning. Did we catch you at a bad time?” That voice definitely wasn’t Eirik. Hvitserk looked down. There was a little old lady with Eirik, and she truly was a little old lady, with short stature and fine, tiny bones. The woman looked like a hummingbird. 

“Uh?” Well… okay, that was as eloquent as they were getting before caffeine. “I mean, no, yes. Good morning. Did you need something?” 

“This is my aunt Ermintrude,” Eirik introduced. “Great aunt, really, but I’ve always called her my aunt.” I’m so sorry your parents named you that, Hvitserk did not say. 

“Hi.” The old lady smiled.

“Hello.” Hvitserk looked at Eirik blearily, hoping there was more to this. 

“She’s the one who ordered the flowers,” Eirik said, “and she needs someone to go pick them up with her.” He scratched his head. “Gen said she’d help but they’re not going to fit in her car. Do you mind?”

Do I mind picking up the flowers? No, not really. Do I mind being woken from a sound sleep to be asked, what, ten minutes before we have to go get them, before coffee or a shower? Hell yes, I mind. “I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes,” Hvitserk said, leaning against the open door, about to close it again—but no. Hvitserk had to say something or he’d kick himself all day. “Eirik?” 

“Yes?” 

“New rule. Twelve hours advance notice on all requests before noon.” Hvitserk thought he heard Eirik’s aunt scolding him quietly or laughing at him. He stepped into the shower hoping it was both. 

Gen was sitting with Eirik’s aunt in the lobby when Hvitserk came down for the second time twenty minutes later. He’d forgotten his car keys the first time and only realized it in the elevator on the way down and had had to go back up, but— Oh god Gen had coffee. And she was holding it out to Hvitserk. “Marry me,” Hvitserk said after taking the first long sip. 

“We’ll have a double wedding. Angela and Eirik won’t mind.” Gen snorted and helped Aunt Ermintrude up. “Romantic as that sounds, I think I’ll have to pass. Are you all right to drive?” 

“I am now.” Gen, as it turned out, was funny. It could have just been him being a little punchy from being up early and short of sleep, but he didn’t think so. Gen was also obviously a morning person and Hvitserk was so very not, but since Gen didn’t seem to be trying to convert him he was more than willing to forgive her. Aunt Ermintrude was amusing and had been married here herself (though apparently had never been back to the city since). Thankfully, Gen seemed to have a gift for managing chaos and she kept a sense of humor while she did it. 

Hvitserk was ready to beat his head against the steering wheel but Gen was patient as she translated the old woman’s natterings and asides into actual directions Hvitserk could use instead of a litany of “well, that used to be a drugstore, I think—oh, you missed the turn, go around—I suppose not. You know, it just didn’t look like that sixty years ago,” and Hvitserk’s personal favorite, “are you sure that’s a one-way street?” They found the florist without incident. It was the sheer volume of flowers that absolutely boggled Hvitserk.  
“Did they order an entire nursery?” he gasped, unable to help himself. Ermintrude tutted. 

“We got such a good deal, too.” Gen grinned at him, hazel eyes sly as she packed in her last armload of flower boxes and climbed in. “Clearly you haven’t been to a wedding in a while.” 

“The last wedding I went to was a barbecue,” Hvitserk admitted, loading in flowers, boxes and buckets around Gen, who’d had to get in first if she was going to get in at all. Hvitserk helped Ermintrude into the van, climbed in himself, checked his mirrors, and burst out laughing.

“What?” the old lady asked, and Hvitserk pointed behind her. 

“Don’t make any sudden turns,” Gen said, poker-faced. Boxes were piled on the third bench seat, on the floor in front of the seats and around Gen’s feet, piled up on either side of her, and piled in her lap up to her chin. If Hvitserk hit the brakes suddenly he’d cause an avalanche. He’d better not, because as twittery and frail as the old lady was, he was pretty sure that Ermintrude would kill him if he damaged the flowers. Then Angela would resurrect him to kill him again. When they got back to the hotel they unloaded the flowers into Ermintrude’s room, carefully removing them from their boxes and sticking them in bucket after bucket of water. 

The little old woman’s hotel room looked like a greenhouse on one side and a rummage sale on the other with all the mismatched white and clear vases stacked up everywhere. “Now you’ll come back to help me arrange all these,” Ermintrude made them promise. “I’m not making six bridesmaids’ bouquets and all the decorations by myself, you know.”

“I promise,” Gen said. Ermintrude nodded. 

“You too,” she said to Hvitserk. “We’ll need your van.”

Hvitserk started “Isn’t the reception at the hotel?” he asked, confused.

Ermintrude shook her head. “Not this hotel, young man. This hotel is very nice, but the reception rooms just aren’t up to scratch. Not big enough. No,” she said, teeming with pride, “the reception is at the same hotel my Clement and I were married at, and the bride and groom are spending their wedding night there. Now you promise to come take all these over.” He did, and Eirik’s aunt nodded, all smiles. The door shut. 

Hvitserk glanced at Gen. Gen shrugged. “It was really, really, really too expensive for everyone to stay at that hotel. I think Angela and Eirik are only spending their wedding night there because a night in the honeymoon suite came with the use of the reception hall. Everybody who isn’t staying at this hotel is staying at one or two others about the same price.” Hvitserk nodded. That made sense. 

“Want to get some lunch?” 

Gen sighed. “I’ve got to start wrapping wedding favors. Besides,” she said, “it’s only ten-thirty.” 

“Yeah, but I haven’t had breakfast.”

“If your room’s anything like mine, the room service menu’s on your night table,” Gen said simply, and started walking down the hallway. This wasn’t going the way Hvitserk wanted, and he jogged to catch up. 

“Can I help you with the favors? I mean, would you mind?” He smiled, sheepish. “I don’t know many people here and I’m sort of afraid to be left on my own. I’m scared someone will draft me for something. Again.” There was a softness playing on Gen’s face, as if she was trying not to smile. 

“You’re volunteering for work to get out of work?” Put that way… 

“Yes.” 

“All right.” Gen walked down the hall again towards her room. “But if you screw up I’m kicking you out.” She led him to a room on another floor on the opposite side of the hotel from Ermintrude’s. Hvitserk was a little lost, but he thought it wasn’t all that far from his. Gen peeked through the door to her room first. “Whitney? We’ve got company.” 

“C’mon in,” Whitney called. 

Gen opened the door wide, entering first. Hvitserk stopped in the doorway and stared. “That’s a lot of fudge,” he said. The boxes he’d helped wheel up here had been unpacked. Cookie sheet after wax-papered cookie sheet was covered in neatly-laid-out two-inch fudge hearts, taking up the table, the beds, and a healthy portion of the floor. There was a plastic container of what looked like scrap fudge. 

Whitney was sitting on the floor cutting squares of waxed paper to size. Gen joined her easily on the floor and popped part of a broken chocolate heart into her mouth. Hvitserk settled next to her, and started watching the TV. “Oh hey!” he exclaimed. “Dr. Zhivago. I guess we’ll be here long enough to watch all of the movie, right?” 

Whitney and Gen cocked their eyebrows. “Actually,” Gen said, “it’s a marathon on this channel, and we’ll probably be able to watch it twice.” 

“Broken heart?” Whitney offered brightly.

“No thanks,” Hvitserk teased. “Already had enough of those on my own time.” He reconsidered, eying the fudge. “But I’d be willing to put up with a squished one.” Gen snorted and passed him some fudge. “Here.” He bit into it casually, but then it melted on his tongue and his taste buds kicked in, and the experience was practically a religious one. 

“My God. Where’d you get this?” 

“Gen made it,” Whitney said. 

Turning to Gen, Hvitserk just stared in awed appreciation for a few seconds before saying, “This is incredible.” She flashed him a pleased smile and he continued, “Do you bake this for work?” Gen smiled at him kindly, like someone trying not to laugh. 

“You don’t bake fudge. And no, Sweet Favors doesn’t sell it.” Hvitserk watched Gen wrap and Whitney cut waxed paper while he finished it. “Maybe I will go for a broken heart,” he said. 

“Go ahead,” Gen told him, popping a bite of fudge in her own mouth. “I knew some would get squashed so I made plenty extra. Eat all the defective hearts you want.” 

“What can I do?” Hvitserk asked, another chunk tucked in his cheek. 

“Here,” Gen pushed him a stack of papers and a sheet of stickers. “Wrap something, but only the perfect ones.” Hvitserk wasn’t very good at wrapping, though. Gen could wrap three in the time it took him to do one, and by the time they had a good two dozen wrapped, Gen’s looked much neater. Pretty, even. “You’re better at this,” Hvitserk pouted, putting down another heart. 

Gen laughed, and he couldn’t help but notice how it lit up her face. “I get plenty of practice at work. Eat some more fudge.”  

 

Gen watched Hvitserk out of the corner of her eye as she worked. It was cute how hard he concentrated on getting his folds to look like hers. “Can I cut paper?” Hvitserk asked, giving up on wrapping hearts. 

“All done cutting paper,” Whitney confessed, folding open white cardstock boxes. “But you could put the boxes together.” 

“Okay.” When enough boxes were folded they got an assembly line going, Hvitserk folding boxes and glancing at Gen, Gen’s nimble fingers kept wrapping heart after heart in neatly pleated wax paper, fastened with a second sticker. Then Hvitserk and Whitney stuffed the boxes with little white paper crinkles (it took a little experimenting to find out how much to use enough to cushion the hearts and still have the box close properly), and on top of the crinkles went a single fudge heart. 

Next, Whitney wrapped each box with ribbon in the wedding colors, held in place with a shiny silver sticker. All three of them chatted idly while they listened to the TV and gorged themselves with fudge. It was pretty obvious after this morning that Hvitserk was not a morning person, but their conversation, peppered by his near constant yawning, confirmed it. 

“So will you be going to work while you’re house-sitting? Not taking the time off?” 

“Not the whole two weeks, no.” Hvitserk made a face. “I like Eirik, but I’d need to be head over heels in love with the guy in order to waste all my time off on the crappiest vacation ever, and I don’t roll that way.” He froze, caught. “Please don’t ever tell him I said that about the vacation.” The women laughed. 

“Don’t worry,” Gen teased, “your secret’s safe as long as you promise not to tell Angela how much I’ve been complaining.” 

“Deal.” 

“I’m impressed you’re going to drive an hour to work every day,” Gen said.

“Hour and a half.” 

“Hour and a half?” 

“Yeah.” Hvitserk shrugged and gobbled some more fudge. 

“I can’t imagine being in the car for an hour and a half just to get to work,” Gen said. “I get to the bakery every morning at four, so my commute is about fifteen minutes. Zero traffic.” 

“Four?” Hvitserk said, shocked. “You get to work at four?” 

“Six days a week, ready and raring to go, yes,” Gen said easily. “Sometimes three, if we know we’ve got a lot of upcoming orders and are going to be busy. I’ve been going at three every day for the last week to help the bakery get ready for my being here instead of there this week.” 

“I can’t believe you go to work at four,” Hvitserk repeated. Gen smiled happily.

“It’s what I love,” she said. “Why? What do you do?” 

“I’m a 911 dispatcher,” he said. “I usually work nights.” 

“Really?” Gen said, impressed. “Is it hard?” 

“Sometimes,” Hvitserk confessed. “I mean, nobody ever calls us when they’re having a good day, you know? I talk to people in crisis and I don’t get to know the end of their stories, if they’re okay, and that’s really hard. I’ve got to know how to tell someone how to perform CPR or how to deliver his wife’s baby or what to do when their father just fell down the stairs, or keep them calm when their house is burning down. And…” He looked… not embarrassed, but sort of sheepish. “Most people think we have this… I don’t know, control panel, but we don’t actually know when the power will come back on or how big an earthquake was unless we Google it.” 

“Wow,” Gen said quietly, while Whitney said, “That must be really stressful.”

“Sometimes,” Hvitserk admitted. “Sometimes the calls come back to back, and sometimes they just come at a steady pace. Sometimes, though, it’s completely dead and there’s nothing to do for a couple of hours. We chat, or read… some dispatchers knit, even one of the guys. It’s this scary, frustrating, wonderful job. I feel like I’m helping people.” Hvitserk suddenly deflected the focus back to Gen. “Your job seems surprisingly stressful too. I mean, when you picture a bakery, you picture this warm, homey, slow paced situation. But I saw the way folks were with you the other morning—it was a zoo. I could never tell somebody no that way, that they can’t have something. Especially not when they’re angry and right in my face like that.” 

“Really?” Gen asked. “But you’re a dispatcher. Not everyone who calls can be nice, can they?” 

“No, we get some real gems sometimes. Abusive callers, crank callers… abusive crank callers… but it’s different on the phone, somehow.” He shrugged. “I don’t… do conflict. In person,” he added awkwardly. “But on the phone it’s different.” 

“They’re not right there staring at you,” Gen agreed. 

“Yeah, but it’s not just that. I can do things over the phone I can’t do in person. I’ve got all these tools, and I know what to do to break down any problem into one I can solve. Someone really needs me for the length of a phone call and I can put aside everything I don’t need, my worries, my bad day, whatever, and be there for them when it matters and I like that.” He met Gen’s gaze, his own eyes intense and warm green. “It’s what I love.” They stayed like that, smiling at each other, until Whitney threw an empty box at Gen.

“Less staring, more wrapping,” Whitney said. “Or we’ll be here all day. Now holding auditions for a new topic of conversation, since Hvitserk killed the last one with his awesome job that nobody can top.” 

“Sorry,” Hvitserk grinned. “How about I make up for it by starting a new one?” “Sounds fair, as long as you keep stuffing those boxes,” Whitney said, grinning back. 

That was how, as he regaled them with tales of horror centering around Eirik’s refrigerator, Gen discovered that Hvitserk was bright and playful. The stories were rich with detail, but they were also rich with unspoken affection for his friend, the sort that said Hvitserk only complained because he cared. They had that in common, really. “You complain?” Gen let Whitney’s loud snort speak for itself. Gen smiled. 

“Yeah, I complain, but only to people who’d understand,” she explained to Hvitserk. “I don’t want to be mistaken—I love Angela like a sister and I’m happy I could do all this for her. That’s why I’m complaining. Well, not what I’m complaining about, but it’s why I’m complaining at all. If I didn’t like Angela so much I wouldn’t have done any of this, and then I’d have no reason to complain.”

“Huh,” Hvitserk said thoughtfully. “I’d never thought of it like that.” Gen smiled at him, and shrugged.

“So why do you do people favors?” It was Hvitserk’s turn to shrug. 

“I’m not sure any more. Habit? I like helping people. I do it for a living. I used to do favors for my friends all the time because I wanted people to like me—hey,” he said reproachfully. “You are laughing. Here I am, baring my soul, and you’re laughing.” 

“I am,” Gen confessed, taming her chuckles. “But just because I can’t imagine too many people not liking you.” She grinned. “You seem very generous, and you’re funny. It’s obvious how much you like your friends from the stories you tell about them.” 

“Well, thanks, I think,” he said wryly, “but you didn’t know me in college.” 

“Then you must be a changed man,” Gen said with almost theatrical primness, then relaxed. “No, really. I got to know Eirik while he was courting Angela. The Refrigerator from the Black Lagoon does not surprise me. That it horrifies you is a credit to you above and beyond house-sitting, acts of telephone bravery, or any of the transportation favors.” 

“Donating time and gas, putting my nights on the line for parents of choking children, saving lives… all of it trumped by disgust at home science projects,” said Hvitserk, dryly. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do,” Whitney said from her perch on the bed, surrounded by ribbons. “You’ll get a lot more dates with not-crazy-women that way.” Hvitserk was genuinely curious. “Why?” 

“Because anybody would put up with someone who’ll do something for them, but not everybody cares about their kitchen,” Gen said. “Have some standards. Make some demands. It thins out the pool.” Hvitserk frowned thoughtfully. “And have you done that?” Gen shrugged. 

“Raised my standards? Yeah.” She smiled, self deprecating. “And I keep trying to improve them. It’s a work in progress.” The grin Hvitserk gave her then was more friendly. “So,” he said, changing the subject again. “What kind of movies do you like?” 

Gen loved movies, and so did Hvitserk, and that easily took up another hour of conversation. They both liked well-made children’s movies, and they could both agree that they loved a good story, but all three of them disagreed over what made a good story. “I can’t believe you didn’t like that one!” Hvitserk exclaimed, emphasizing his point by gesturing with a piece of fudge. “It was an amazing psycho thriller!” 

“That’s exactly why I wish that I had never seen it,” Gen said simply. 

“So it’s the suspense itself you don’t like, hmm?”  

“Yep!” Whitney grinned. “She can’t wait to unwrap her birthday presents either.” 

“Hey,” Gen protested. “You can’t talk, you like slasher flicks.” 

“You do?” Hvitserk asked Whitney, clearly surprised. “Yeah. Don’t you?” 

“No, not unless they’re a ludicrously over-the-top parody.” Hvitserk made a face. “Mainstream movies are just predictable. I can tell what’s going to happen almost the entire way through, so that’s why I love suspense.” He smiled warmly at Gen and winked. “When something can keep me guessing I really enjoy it.”  
Gen suppressed a smile. Hvitserk was flirting with her! “And I really like historicals,” she said, “things with rich sets and richer characters. It can be a romance or a comedy or even,” she shuddered theatrically, “suspense, as long as the story’s strong enough to support it and the characters are strong enough to stand even without the story.”

“Let me guess, you’ve seen every version of Pride and Prejudice ever made.” “Not every version.”. 

“Just every version she knows about,” Whitney explained, pretend-helpfully. Gen pouted and pointedly turned to ignore them watch Dr. Zhivago. Omar Sharif had never let her down. “What about comedy?” Whitney asked.

“It depends,” Hvitserk said, starting on the last package of boxes to be folded. “Gotta keep me guessing, remember? But I really like to laugh.” He grinned. “I love it when a story uses comedy as a tool to tell the story. Even,” and he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “romantic comedies.”   
Gen and Whitney obliged him with the expected gasps of pretended shock. Then Gen started giggling. “See, and I don’t like romantic comedies, usually. I just can’t find them believable enough.” 

“You don’t think love is funny?” Hvitserk asked, eating more fudge. 

“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Gen said.  Hvitserk shrugged.

“Life is ridiculous. What can you do but laugh?” 

“Really?” Gen asked, tilting her head. “Even after everything you’ve heard as a dispatcher? Because I’ve had some customers…” 

“Especially after everything I’ve heard as a dispatcher,” Hvitserk said firmly. “Life’s absurd. It just is. People are so weird, you’ve got to laugh or you’ve let them win.” Gen snorted, smiling. 

“Your love life is funny, then?” He shook his head with a grin of his own. 

“Not really, no. You’ve got to have a love life for it to be funny. I haven’t had a date in almost a year, which is funny-sad, not funny-ha-ha.” Whitney gave her a significant look and nodded her head meaningfully towards Hvitserk. Gen made faces at her, and then she and Whitney made faces at each other… at least until Hvitserk turned around. Then both of them just smiled at him, innocent, while Hvitserk wondered whether or not he should be suspicious.   
Gen thought he looked pretty adorable sitting on the floor of a hotel room with that almost-suspicious look on his face, surrounded by ribbons and hearts and crinkled paper and fudge. Whitney was the one to call it quits first. “That’s it,” she said. “If I eat another piece of fudge I’m going to turn into one. I’m going out for some real food for lunch. You two hold down the fort.” 

Hvitserk took stock of the room after Whitney left. “How much do we have to wrap?” Gen noticed him looking at the boxes and smirked. 

“Relax, that’s not fudge. Those are mirrored platters to put the cakes on.”

Hvitserk stared at the boxes. “I remember you told me about the cakes, but that… those are just plates?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Unless there’s a lot of styrofoam or something in there, that’s more cake than I thought.” 

“I know,” Gen made a face. She ate another piece of fudge. “But it’s what they wanted.” 

“And what do you want?” Hvitserk asked.

“What do you mean?” Hvitserk gestured around the room. 

“Is this what you want out of romance? Devoted friends, plenty of cake?”

“Omar Sharif?” Gen responded, smiling a little, shifting around to relieve stiff muscles. 

“Possibly,” Hvitserk agreed easily. “If you’re into that sort of thing.” He shifted closer to lean against the foot of the bed, settling nearer to Gen. She sat back down next to him and leaned against the bed as well. She tried to watch TV, but it was too hard to focus with Hvitserk beside her. He held out a piece of fudge. Gen looked at it, then at him, searching. She took the fudge. 

”So, really,” Hvitserk said, relaxing and giving up all pretense at boxing favors. “What are you into?” 

“I like the devoted friends bit,” Gen said, slouching down more. She tilted her head to look at him better. “I know that if this were my wedding, Angela would be there coordinating things and driving everyone crazy telling the wrong people about the details.” Gen smiled, and Hvitserk laughed.

“Good to know that’s not just me.” 

“What’d she do to you?” 

“Driving her parents to the wedding,” he said, plaintively. “I didn’t even know her parents!” 

“Well,” Gen said, “you do now!” She forced a grin over the residual awkward embarrassment of essentially having thrown Hvitserk under the bus on that one. “Very funny,” he said   
grumpily. “She didn’t even ask, either. Remember when we met in the store? The second time.”

“Yeah?” 

“A few minutes after you left, Angela just called and started thanking me, instead of asking me first. There is no way to say no to that woman!” 

“Really?” Gen kicked Hvitserk’s foot gently. “I don’t have any problems with it.” Hvitserk looked around at the room, the favor supplies strewn everywhere, the boxes of cake platters. He raised an eyebrow. Gen snorted. “I volunteered for this. I may be an idiot, but at least I’m my own idiot. Well I was more or less drafted into the flower arranging, but I’ve told her no on other things.” “But… she’s your friend.” 

“So? Like Angela’s so scary and is going to start smashing things if you tell her no.” Gen crossed her arms under her breasts. She saw Hvitserk’s gaze flick down, then he seemed to force it back up to her face. She smiled, pleased despite herself. “Honestly, she’d probably just cry.” 

“That’s worse,” Hvitserk insisted, glum. 

“I can’t believe it. The big tough dispatcher can’t handle tears?” 

“At work I can do something about tears.” Hvitserk seemed embarrassed. “I get flustered when I can’t solve someone’s problems by sending them an ambulance.” Gen gave a shark-like smile. 

“Really? Because she’d feel just terrible if you didn’t say anything and felt taken advantage of. Tears.” Hvitserk stared at her in horror. “I’m never saying a word to anyone else.” Gen threw a piece of fudge at him. “Hey! Stop that.” He threw it back, and she caught it and ate it, and smiled as if she hadn’t been eating fudge for the last three hours.   
Hvitserk’s eyes widened and locked with hers as Gen leaned forward and let her smile spread wider, smug. Then she threw another piece of fudge at him, this one bouncing off his forehead. And Hvitserk threw another piece of fudge at her. Soon they were rolling around on the floor in front of the TV in an all-out fudge fight, pitching scraps and broken hearts at each other, Gen shrieking between giggles “not the fudge, not the fudge!” 

“Then stop throwing it at me!” Hvitserk growled playfully, snagging her by the ankle as she scrambled towards a pan full of more ammunition.

“I meant the favors,” she said, and pounced, trying and failing to bowl him over backwards. He flipped her over and she retaliated by grabbing fudge bits off the carpet and stuffing them down the back of Hvitserk’s shirt. “Hey!” he squirmed and she giggled, and he let more of his weight come down upon her to hold her still. And the perspective shifted.   
Gen looked up at him, both of them breathless, Hvitserk smirking with mischief with his dirty blonde hair falling out of his bun and over his forehead… She saw his green eyes widen, pupils seeming to darken… Then she leaned up and kissed him. Less than a second later he kissed her back. Gen wrapped one arm around his back, fingers sliding up into his hair, and Hvitserk followed her gentle pull, letting more of his muscular frame down on top of her. 

He shifted his arms to hold himself up over her, kissing her more deeply. Gen closed her eyes. He smelled like clean laundry and hotel soap and fudge, and, underneath it, smooth male musk that had to be Hvitserk himself. Down the hallway a door slammed. Gen’s eyes flew open and she shoved at Hvitserk’s shoulders, panicked. He let her up immediately. She scrambled across the floor until she was sitting with her back against the other bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Hvitserk said quickly, kneeling up and reaching for her. Gen scooted away and he pulled back like she’d burned him. “I’m sorry—too fast?” Hvitserk asked, green eyes searching her face in concern. “I thought you wanted—That was too fast, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize.” 

“Okay,” he said, calming down. He sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at her hands. “Okay. I won’t… Oh god,” his gaze flew up to her face, full of guilt. “You’re not seeing someone already, are you?” Gen shook her head. 

“I’m not dating anyone.” 

“Okay,” Hvitserk said, obviously relieved, and she could tell that he wasn’t getting it. 

“No, I’m not dating anyone. Nobody.” 

“That’s good.” Now he just looked confused. 

“And I’m not going to date anyone.” 

“Oh… okay,” he said tentatively. “Did I…?” Gen sighed in frustration. She wanted to kiss him. He was strong and patient and playful and he’d tasted like fudge and she wanted to kiss him some more. That was the problem. 

“You’re fine.” God, he was, too. “Just… let’s not do that again. Or… or talk about it.” Hvitserk seemed deflated. “Okay.” Gen felt a stab of guilt. The poor guy was clearly wondering what terrible thing he’d done wrong. 

“Hvitserk, you didn’t do anything wrong, I did.” 

“I… don’t quite understand,” he said, looking her over again. “This is one of those times where someone says ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ right?” Gen flashed a smile. She couldn’t help herself. “Right.” 

“So you’re okay?” he asked again. 

“I am really okay,” Gen said firmly. Calm, competence. 

This was okay. There was no problem here because she said so. “You and I are even okay… unless you feel otherwise,” she added, suddenly worried.  Hvitserk nodded. “I’m fine.” And he smiled slowly. 

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.” Hvitserk was still smiling. “Just thinking about how pretty you are.”

Gen shot him a pained look. “Hvitserk, please don’t.” After a moment of awkward stillness, they began to pick up the fudge they’d thrown all over the room without speaking, or even crossing the invisible border dividing Gen’s side of the room from his—the center point being the spot in front of the TV where the fudge fight (and the kissing, Gen’s brain helpfully reminded her) had started. Then they sat on the floor with one of the beds between them and watched the end of the movie. 

The tense silence was broken by the robotic noise of Whitney’s keycard in the hotel lock. Gen leapt up to hold the door for her, and soon they were surrounded by takeout containers as well as fudge. Hvitserk picked at his lunch, subdued, and Gen avoided looking at him as much as possible without being too blatant. She must not have been doing too good a job at it, though, because Whitney was peering back and forth between them, obviously picking up on something and confused by it, but Whitney wasn’t saying anything so Gen wasn’t going to either. Finally Whitney noticed something else. She frowned at Gen, blinking. “How did you get fudge in your hair?”

Gen frowned and put her hand up to her hair, looking for it. “No, other side,” Whitney guided, and Gen found the chunk of fudge mashed into her curly black hair. Her eyes widened and she shot an accusing glance at Hvitserk.  Hvitserk looked suspiciously innocent. She remembered his unexpected, sly smile earlier. “Just thinking how pretty you look.”   
“You—” Unable to think of a word, she snapped her mouth shut and glared, fuming. Then it came belatedly to her: traitor!  

“Thanks for lunch, Whitney,” Hvitserk said with a charming grin, packing up his food and getting up in a hurry. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with the rest of the fudge.” 

“Okay…” Whitney said, looking back and forth between Gen and Hvitserk before smiling herself. “Thanks for all your help! Looks like we’ve got most of it done. We’ll see you tonight, right?”

“Tonight?” Hvitserk froze in the doorway. Gen froze, seated on the floor. What was tonight? 

“A bunch of us are going out to eat at some Mexican place one of the local guests likes,” Whitney explained. Gen could feel Hvitserk’s gaze on her, but she stared straight ahead at the TV refusing to meet his eyes. 

“Ah, no, sorry. I don’t think so.” 

“Oh,” Whitney said, confused. “Well, we’ll see you when we see you.” 

“Yeah. Bye.” The door closed. Whitney turned on Gen. 

“What on earth was that all about? Did you two get in a fight or something?”

“Something like that.” 

“In an hour? What are you, five?” Gen cursed under her breath and got up. 

“I’m going to go wash the fudge out of my hair. Excuse me.”


	6. Chapter 6

Hvitserk went back to his hotel room, wondering what he’d done wrong. He flopped on his bed, turned on the TV and started flicking through channels. Kept company by the TV’s mindless noise, Hvitserk thought about what Gen had said and started to wonder if he had done anything wrong. He had thought she’d liked him, but he must have misread something somewhere. Was it just going too fast? Because it had been fast, this was… what, their third meeting? 

But something was still off. Was there something about weddings or Valentine’s Day Gen didn’t like? Was it him? He picked up what was left of his lunch and started to eat it, thinking over everything he’d said and done, or hadn’t said, or hadn’t done, and eventually concluded that this wasn’t getting him anything but a headache. Hvitserk knew he’d have to trust that Gen understood what was going on with Gen and that she would tell him what he needed to know. Given the track record of this group for telling him about things in advance, that wasn’t reassuring, but… it was the best plan that he had. 

Hvitserk finished his lunch and stayed in the rest of the afternoon, watching TV. There was only so much TV a man could watch, though, and so around about dinnertime he got up, left the hotel, and went for a walk until he was hungry enough and found a place that smelled good. Back at the hotel, and he took a shower and then there wasn’t really anything for him to do except watch more TV, and the thought of that was lonely and kind of depressing. There were a ton of people here, but he didn’t know any of them well except Eirik. Hvitserk was certain Eirik was busy. He was equally certain that some of the other guests would be happy to hang out with him, but he felt sort of awkward just knocking on doors until he found somebody. He should have gone out to dinner with “everyone” and met the other guests, picked up a few room and cell phone numbers so he’d have other people to keep him company. “Everyone” was a lot of people, so it probably would have been fine with Gen going too, but… it just hadn’t seemed like a good idea at the time. He was just about to go down to the hotel lounge to see if he could recognize anyone when there was a knock on his door. It was Gen. 

 

Gen stood staring at the hotel door for several seconds. It’s not that she thought this was the wrong door or anything. Angela had a list of everyone’s room numbers and while she might be scattered, it wasn’t like her to be outright wrong. And she wasn’t nervous either, exactly. More like… concerned. Concerned was a good word for it. She’d gotten caught up in the heat of the moment, reacted rashly and then the situation had been awkward, and now she wasn’t sure if she and Hvitserk were avoiding each other or not. Then there was dinner and talking and Angela’s parents had told her that Hvitserk didn’t really know anyone here but Eirik, and Gen was concerned. She screwed up her courage and knocked on the door. Hvitserk answered it. 

He was in what were probably his pajamas, flannel pants and old T-shirt, and his hair was wet. He looked like either a comfortable evening on the couch, or an open invitation to run her hands under that T-shirt. She couldn’t make up her mind. So much for the ‘heat of the moment’ theory, Gen scolded herself. Behave, Gen! “Hi,” she said. “Did you get dinner?” 

“Yeah, I ate.” Hvitserk looked at her curiously, and Gen ducked her head briefly and flushed. 

“I owe you an apology,” she said, feeling awkward. “I mean, a real one.” 

“You don’t—” 

“Yes, Hvitserk,” Gen said firmly, “I do.” 

“Did you want to come in?” Hvitserk asked, standing back from the door. Gen looked at him. He looked good, his slightly damp Tshirt sticking to his muscular shoulders, the bed behind him rumpled and lived-in. She wanted to come in—which was exactly why she shouldn’t. 

“No,” she said instead, and glanced down the deserted hallway with a little smile. “Not unless we have a chaperone.” Hvitserk settled against the door, propping it open with himself. “Okay.” 

“I…” She took a deep breath. “I feel really bad about freaking out on you this afternoon,” she said, confessing. “I like you. A lot. I mean, I don’t know you all that well yet, but what I do know I really like. But—” she said sharply, wanting to cut that grin off before she led the poor man on more than she had already, “I’m not looking for any kind of relationship. I’m especially not looking to hook up with someone at a wedding, or on Valentine’s Day.” 

“Or a wedding on Valentine’s Day,” Hvitserk added wryly, and Gen smiled. He didn’t seem to be mad or hurt. Well, not too hurt. “Exactly,” Gen said, riding a wave of relief. “So… I owe you an apology for getting carried away and leading you on like that— ” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hvitserk interrupted gently, putting up a hand. “Stop that right there. You weren’t ‘leading me on.’ You were honest and you’ve said what you meant, right? Then and now.” 

“I… yes,” Gen said, backpedaling. “But—”

“But nothing,” Hvitserk said, gently and firmly. “You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to say no even if we’re rolling around naked instead of just kissing with fudge in your hair.” He frowned a little. “What kind of jerk do you think I am?” 

She flushed. “A jerk who didn’t tell me I had fudge in my hair?” She peeked up at Hvitserk. He looked unhappy and kind of angry. Gen really hoped it wasn’t at her. “I’m sorry,” she said instead, heartfelt. He sighed. 

“I said—” 

“Yeah, I know.” Gen smiled up at him, relieved again. “You’re a nice guy, you know?” Hvitserk smiled tightly. 

“So I’ve been told. Usually right before someone says they don’t deserve me and are going to date some jerk instead.” 

“Ouch. Well… I like you, and if you’re okay with me and my mind-changing, maybe we could hang out while we’re waiting for the wedding.” This time his grin was all genuine pleasure. “I’d like that.” 

“Great,” Gen said, smiling back at him. The silence stretched into awkwardness. “Well, goodnight,” she said, lingering instead of leaving. 

“Goodnight,” Hvitserk said, and closed his door. Slowly. Gen could see him watching her leave until she made herself stop acting like a schoolgirl, and head to the elevator without looking back.

 

Hvitserk shut his door slowly. He could see Gen moving back down the hallway almost as slowly, as if torn with herself, and the thought made him giddy. He wasn’t going to think about that either. A regular pair of teenagers, the two of us, he thought to himself with a snort, and picked up a crossword puzzle instead of heading downstairs as he’d planned. He’d decided he wanted some more time alone with his thoughts after all. When he’d asked her what kind of jerk she thought he was, and she’d tried to joke… her flush had been charming, but the exchange had made him want to hit someone. One of her ex-boyfriends, preferably, and it wasn’t really like him to feel that way. Then she’d smiled up at him and told him he was a nice guy, all friendly and trusting, and if Hvitserk weren’t already smitten that would have done it right there. You’ve got it bad, my friend, he told himself, looking for the hotel pen. A matter of days and you’re already seeing the “you’re a nice guy” as a positive sign instead of the Kiss of Death it usually is. He’d tried to downplay it with bravado and wasn’t all that sure how well it had worked. Or if it had worked. He was thinking he should ask Gen out on a date, and the longer he thought about it the more sure he was. The problem, though, was that she’d made it really clear, in words, how much she didn’t want to date… and almost as clear, in actions, how much she liked him. Well, he told himself wryly, you did say just this afternoon how much you liked to be kept guessing.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day had them out on the streets bright and early. Hvitserk wasn’t entirely sure why he was there. All he knew was that Gen had asked him something, and the next thing he knew he was in a craft store holding coffee. He wasn’t sure if he should blame his apparent Pavlovian response to pleading looks and a request, or his attraction to Gen. When she’d called, then showed up at his door with coffee, the deal had been as good as sealed. 

“Why are we out here, again?” 

“Because they’re displaying their engagement photos next to the guestbook and the frames broke in her sister’s suitcase,” Gen explained. Patiently, even though this was the second time. “And the ring bearer accidentally spilled his juice on the guestbook. His mom washed off the cover but we’ve still got to get new pages for it.” 

“I didn’t know the pages came out.” 

“It’s a scrapbook.” 

“Oh,” Hvitserk said, not really getting it but letting it go. “But why are we out here at eight in the morning?” 

“You said you wanted to hang out,” Gen said, rolling her eyes. “I called you and you said yes. Nobody made you come with me. I said, ‘Hey Hvitserk, I’ve got to go out and get picture frames, want to come?’ and you said ‘yes, can we get coffee?’” 

“It was early. You used the nice voice. I’d have said yes if you asked me if I wanted to get shot in the foot,” he grumped. 

“The nice voice? What are you, a puppy?” 

“Cut me some slack, the brain doesn’t engage until the second cup of coffee.” He frowned at her grin. “You’re really a morning person, aren’t you,” Hvitserk accused, and Gen laughed at him. 

“I’m a baker. It comes with the territory.” One place had frames that were okay, but not enough of any one style that matched. Another had paper, but it was really expensive, so they tried somewhere else. They wandered from art store to art store, talking, and eventually, almost naturally, talking about things that didn’t matter turned into talking about things that mattered very much. 

“Love is funny,” Gen said thoughtfully, staring at yet another Valentine’s display.

“How do you mean?” Hvitserk smiled. “Or rather, funny in which way?” 

“Funny. Just… the books, the movies, the songs… and then you get out into the trenches, trying to find someone, and nothing is ever clear-cut. You like someone, but someone you could live with for years as a friend you couldn’t stand for two months as a lover. Then you see these long-time couples… and… I don’t know. I just wonder how they managed that. If it was finding the right person, or if it was just finding any person and building that relationship from scratch.” Hvitserk shrugged. 

“A bit of both, maybe. Some people just… fit together, right? It’s weird.” 

“I just don’t like that I could see myself happily dating you,” Gen confessed. 

“What?” How the hell had that come up? And why would Gen mean it? Gen stared in horror at the street in front of her before turning to Hvitserk, clearly aghast. 

“I did not mean that the way it came out.”  

“Then what did you mean?” Hvitserk asked. He crossed his arms, offended. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to want you,” Gen insisted. “No, wait— ” she said, when Hvitserk drew back, stung. “I just… I like you, but—” 

“But you don’t like that you like me.” Hvitserk glared at her. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“No.” Hvitserk waited this time while Gen looked for the right words. “I’ve been somebody’s girlfriend after somebody’s girlfriend for so damn long that I just…”  
“You want to be yourself,” Hvitserk said quietly, softening. 

“Yeah… I just…” And then it all came out in a rush. “I am just so tired of being somebody’s girlfriend and that’s all I am! I’m a baker, and I have a cat, and I like to make candy and cupcakes for my friends as gifts. I’ve got my own hobbies and my own friends, I have my own favorite TV shows and restaurants that I don’t like and I hate watching the evening news. I’m me, not ‘somebody’s girlfriend,’ and I hate being so damn lonely when I’m not seeing somebody, even if the last one was a jerk! It’s just not fair that even when it’s good that just means it hurts a lot more when the relationship inevitably—and it’s always inevitably—ends!” Hvitserk was frowning at her. 

“Gen?” 

“What?” she snapped, embarrassed and upset.

“How long have you felt this way?” Hvitserk put his hand on Gen’s shoulder, and Gen lowered her head, cheeks flaming. 

“I’m not sure. I want to be Gen, but I kind of have to figure out who that is, though. I mean, I think I know, but I don’t like her very much. She’s kind of an idiot sometimes to people who don’t deserve it.” 

“Well, it sounds like she’s unhappy,” Hvitserk said, and Gen looked up into Hvitserk’s warm, tentative smile. “People do stupid stuff when they’re unhappy. Trust me.” 

“People do stupid stuff, period,” Gen said. Hvitserk’s smile grew into a grin.

“Yeah, I’ve heard plenty of that,” he said happily. “Can I walk with you some more?”

“Sure.” Gen let Hvitserk tuck her arm into his and hold her close enough that their hips bumped as they walked. 

“You can have a relationship without being a relationship, you know. I promise.” 

“Hvitserk, I told you—” 

“I didn’t mean with me,” he explained. “It doesn’t matter who you date or don’t date… being in love and being a person aren’t mutually exclusive, you know? You can be somebody’s girlfriend and still be Gen. Take Angela and Eirik. Just because they’re getting married it doesn’t mean that’s suddenly all they are, right? I mean, Angela being Angela is why Eirik wants to marry her. If she was just her relationship with Eirik, why would Eirik like her?” Gen skirted the dark, too-personal thoughts that answered that question, and said nothing.   
Hvitserk shrugged and continued. “Angela has her own friends and interests, and so does Eirik.” 

“Of course they do.” 

“They don’t have to share everything, right?” 

“Well…” Gen started, not sure she liked where this was going. “They should.”

“Why? I’m not talking about money or problems or the microwave. Angela doesn’t have to love Eirik’s favorite sports team to love Eirik. Does she?”

“Of course not.”

“And Eirik doesn’t have to spend his every waking moment with Angela to prove he loves her, right?” 

“No, that’s silly. Eirik doesn’t have to prove anything.”  A smile made Hvitserk’s lips twitch. 

“Good, because that refrigerator would kill any proof of love on Eirik’s part, though marrying Eirik despite it is a pretty clear indication of Angela’s devotion.” 

“I think you have a fixation on the refrigerator.” When she didn’t continue, Hvitserk gave her a little nudge. “So?” 

“So what?” Gen asked. 

“So why do you think you have to jump through someone else’s hoops in order to have a relationship? Why can’t you just enjoy yourselves, and your similarities, and the ways you’re different, too?”  Gen again couldn’t find a response, and Hvitserk went on, watching their feet on the wet sidewalk. “Let me tell you a little thing one of my married coworkers once told me when I was all scandalized that she was checking out other men. She said ‘sweetie, my marriage gave me a ring, not a coffin.’ Her husband too. They had kind of a weird open relationship—not, like, seeing other-people open, but sharing their opinions of other attractive people openly. Anyway, what I took from that was that who you are determines who you’re with, not the other way around. And that it’s okay to appreciate people. Thinking someone is attractive doesn’t chain you to them for life the minute you’re honest about it. All it means is that you think someone’s attractive.” He cocked his head at Gen. “Don’t you think?”

“You’re…” Refreshing, Gen thought. Liberating. “Very different from other people I’ve kind-of-almost been in relationships with.” Hvitserk’s smile was kind of sad.

“Yeah… I mean, I get that a lot, the you’re-weird speech, but—can I tell you something personal?” 

“Sure.” 

“This time it makes me want to punch everyone you’ve ever dated for teaching you those things.” 

“Hey. Not all my exes were jerks.” 

“Hmph.” This time Hvitserk’s disdainful snort made her feel warm instead of aggravated, but… Gen pulled her arm free, putting distance between them. She kept her eyes on the storefronts and foot traffic, ignoring Hvitserk’s hurt look as they walked down the sidewalk, no longer cuddled together against the cold.


	8. Chapter 8

Gen was washing vases in Ermintrude’s hotel bathtub hours later when it hit her that she didn’t want to “not want” Hvitserk. She didn’t want the complications that came from being involved with someone, but she also didn’t want to undo these feelings. Gen liked Hvitserk. She wanted to see as much of him as she could. It was embarrassing how simple it was. But did she really want to date Hvitserk, or was this just longstanding habit? You’ve got to admit you have a really lousy track record with this, she thought to herself, rinsing the last batch. 

“Are you alright in there, dear?” 

“Fine, Ermintrude,” Gen called out. Eirik’s aunt was drying the vases as she washed them. 

“Well, when you’re done we’ve got to water these flowers. My goodness, they drink quickly.” Gen tuned her out a little, filling a vase to use as a watering can. “…Like my Clement,” she caught the end of Ermintrude’s sentence. “My goodness,” the older woman chuckled, “I did put that poor man through heck.”

“Oh?” 

“Oh yes!” Ermintrude chortled. “I was a terrible tease, always leading the poor man around by the nose, then leaving him out on the wrong side of my door at the evening’s end. Such a sweet young man, but I didn’t want to date him no matter how much I liked him.” The look on her face was soft, but her eyes twinkled sharply. 

“You didn’t?” Gen asked, startled. Had she said anything? Had Ermitntrude noticed something? Or was it simply coincidence? 

“Oh no. Poor Clement, he was so hopelessly awkward, not dashing at all! And I was a terribly immature young woman to care about that, no matter how cute or sweet he was. Still,” Ermintrude said happily, “he must have liked it. He stuck around long enough to marry me!” 

“And you said yes, despite the whole not-dashing thing?” Gen teased. 

“Oh, he never was dashing, poor soul. Went to his grave looking rumpled, bless him… but I stopped caring about that quite so much. Took me forty years of trying before I gave up on the starch and iron, but I stopped all the same.” 

“Well, why? I mean, if dashing is what you wanted, why did you settle?” Ermintrude snorted, and tottered past Gen to refill a bucket of roses. 

“I didn’t settle, my dear girl. I merely decided that Clement’s other fine qualities were what I really wanted and needed and that I’d rather have those over some shallow young buck. See, dear, no matter how much fun I had going out with the dashing ones, and I did have fun, oh, acres of it, it was never any fun to stay home with them. Ten minutes off the dance floor and they were bored. They were either whining or leaving and that’s not terribly attractive no matter how nice they were in bed.” Gen hid a smile in a spray of orchids, amused and slightly embarrassed by this strange turn of the conversation.  

“Clement always forgot our anniversary, but he never forgot to say ‘I love you’ every day and he always thought I hung the moon. I could leave him with the radio and a cup of coffee and he’d be happy as a clam at high tide,” Ermintrude continued, “and I could come in looking like death warmed over after a long day of mucking out the house and he still thought I was beautiful. You can’t make up for that with dashing no matter how hard you try.” She grinned wide in her soft, wrinkled face. “That’s why I’m so pleased Eirik is marrying young Angela, you know. There’s a girl who knows that when deciding between peasants and Prince Charming, kind hearts are worth more than crowns. Eirik could use some work, but I think Angela’s up to the task of housetraining him.” Ermintrude sniffed, as if about to depart a great scandal. “Did you know there’s no food in his house? None! Nothing that doesn’t need the microwave and come in a box!”

Gen grinned, thinking of Hvitserk complaining about the very same thing. “I’d heard that, yes.” 

“She’ll take care of that, I’ve no doubt.” Ermintrude patted Gen on the arm affectionately. “And she’s got such nice friends, too, dear. You’re an angel to help out with so much, you and your other friend, what’s her name…” 

“Whitney.” 

“Whitney, yes.” Ermintrude beamed. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Ermintrude called, and Whitney stuck her head through the door.   
After greeting them, Whitney asked, “I’m going out for dinner. Do you ladies want to join me?” 

“Oh, no, thank you,” Ermintrude said. “I’m going out to dinner with my nephew and his parents.” She peered through her glasses at Gen. “What about you, Gen?” 

“I think I’ll stay in. I’m really tired,” she said. She was tired; for almost a week she’d been staying up a lot later than she was used to but really, it was mostly that she didn’t want to go out and run into Hvitserk. Not yet. Whitney helped them fill up the last of the flower buckets. 

“You really don’t want to go?” Whitney asked when they were in the hall, headed back to their room. “We won’t be out all night, just grabbing a bite to eat.” 

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” Gen unlocked the door, sidestepped a box of finished wedding favors and her suitcase, and flopped on the bed. Whitney looked at her carefully. 

“Are you sure? I’m going with—” 

“Whitney,” Gen interrupted, “I’m fine. I really do want to stay in, all by myself, and have a hot date with the shower and a book.” 

“If you’re really sure,” Whitney said, dubiously, picking up her purse.

“Go!” Gen insisted, shooing her out with both hands. “Get! Go forth!” 

“Fine,” Whitney said. “Enjoy your date with the book.” 

Gen thought about Ermintrude’s story after she ordered herself some dinner from room service, and thought about it more while she took her shower, the heat and the white noise of the water soothing. If you substitute “perfection” for “dashing,” maybe I could take it as a lesson, she mused. It wasn’t that Gen wanted perfection, but… I’m just really tired of dealing with problems I don’t know how to fix. Maybe she wasn’t all that different from Hvitserk who could handle 911 calls but not face-to-face conflict. At home, with her friends, she was capable. At the bakery she was invincible. In love… Do I just pick the wrong person, or am I making wrong choices along the way? Is picking the wrong person a choice? Because I’ve met plenty of really nice guys who didn’t work out. 

She couldn’t figure out the recipe for love, didn’t know what was going on, and she wasn’t comfortable being clueless. It made her try too hard, made her get defensive and angry… which, if she were honest, only made it worse. Gen could see the raw ingredients that made people start a relationship, and she could tell a healthy, established relationship when she saw one, but she didn’t know what to do in between. Like her customers who couldn’t bake: they could recognize flour and a finished cinnamon roll but wouldn’t be able to turn the first into the second if their very lives depended on it. But does anyone know? It’s not fair that some people seem to be so good at this… it’s all so easy for them! Am I missing some vital romance gene?  She got out of the shower, more than ready to drown her thoughts in a novel. Gen was tucked up with a pile of scrap fudge and the book when Whitney came back two hours later. 

“It was fun,” she said, taking her shoes off. “You should’ve gone.”

“Nah, I just really wanted to stay in,” Gen said. 

“Did you eat anything besides fudge?” Whitney asked, picking up a piece of fudge for herself. 

“Yeah, I had a sandwich from room service. And fudge.” She rolled over on the bed. “What’d you have for dinner?” 

“Oh, Hvitserk took me out to this little crepe place—” 

“Hvitserk?” Gen yelped, then quickly modulated her voice to something quieter and less shrill. All her doubts came spinning back, from the worry over angry-Hvitserk-nice-Hvitserk duplicity to her conflict over whether her own judgment was any good or not. “You went out with Hvitserk?” After their talk this morning… and okay, maybe he would want to see other people after that mess… 

“Well, we didn’t ‘go out’—”  

“But how could you? And how could he?”  And for crepes, which even sounded romantic.  Worst of all, why did this bother her so much? Well, okay, Gen liked Hvitserk, but she’d told him no, for goodness’ sake! Whitney was staring at her, shocked. 

“What? What the hell, Gen? You spend minutes telling me to go by myself after I try to pry you out of here, you spend days telling me how much you don’t like him and how much you’re not going to date him—and you’re fooling nobody, by the way, except maybe yourself—then you fly off the handle at me when he takes me out to thank me for bringing him lunch?” Gen frowned. 

“When did you bring him lunch?” 

“Yesterday when we put together all the favors. You know, when I left saying I was going to get food and came back with takeout?” Gen deflated, feeling her cheeks warm. “Oh.”  
Whitney sat down next to her on the bed. “We need to talk.” 

“About?” 

“Gen.” 

Gen stared down at her book, scowling. “I owe you an apology, later, when I can make one without shoving my foot in my mouth.” 

“I’m gonna be waiting a long time, then,” Whitney said dryly, sitting on her own bed, facing Gen. “But maybe you want to start by telling me what this is all about?” 

“I thought you said you knew what it was about.” 

“I think,” Whitney said carefully, “we need to stop thinking and start saying things in clear, short words.” She gave Gen a significant look. “You first.” 

“I like Hvitserk,” Gen admitted. “More than I’m comfortable with. And I’m not dealing with it well.” Whitney sighed. 

“No kidding. I hope you’re not being this mental with Hvitserk, Gen.” Gen hunkered down behind her book. “Gen,” Whitney said, disappointed. “You’re not, are you?”

“I may have been telling him “no” a lot, then hanging out with him anyway. And by ‘may,’ I mean yesterday and this afternoon.” 

“Gen, the man likes you and you like him! This doesn’t have to be a problem.” Gen looked up at Whitney. 

“We’ve only known each other four or five days. Why are you so certain he likes me?” 

“Gen,” Whitney said, exasperated, “I just had dinner with the poor man. Hvitserk is half in love with you! He helped us wrap all that stupid fudge—” 

“My fudge is not stupid—” 

“And spent the day with you being dragged to every craft store in the city and being insulted!” 

“Exactly! Why would he like me?” 

“Why would anyone who doesn’t like you put up with that? I like you and sometimes I wonder! Good grief, Gen, what are you so afraid of?” Believing you, Gen thought, saying nothing, and being wrong. “It’s almost midnight,” she said instead. “Just… think about it, okay?” Whitney said, standing up to get ready for bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Thinking about it didn’t help.  Unable to sleep in past six, she began the day out of sorts and it never really got any better. Gen found herself missing the bakery. The wedding was tomorrow morning, it was too early to start arranging flowers, and there was nothing else really to be done. The idleness was getting to her. She wasn’t used to it. Gen was used to working: mixing, kneading, baking, icing, cleaning. If she’d been home, she’d have been cleaning something, or maybe even have gone in to work to bake. The hotel room was notably short of ovens and she was feeling the lack. Yessir, she thought, that’s me. Home appliances are my security blanket. Maybe I should take up knitting… at least that’s portable. 

Gen felt like a goldfish in a bowl, her thoughts swimming in tighter and tighter circles, not getting anywhere. She’d yelled at Whitney over Hvitserk and she didn’t like what that said about how she felt, or what it said about her. She’d thought she was above that sort of thing and it was upsetting to find out she was wrong. And what was Hvitserk doing, taking out Gen’s best friend after that talk about attraction and being your own person? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have, because Hvitserk was a nice guy who drove people places at the last minute and liked suspense and told Gen she was allowed to know her own mind. She didn’t want to think it had meant anything, but there were lots of things she ‘hadn’t wanted’. She didn’t want to believe that The Jerk had been controlling and shallow. She hadn’t wanted to believe that the hockey player hadn’t really been very interested in her.  
What if she was wrong about Hvitserk too? Did that mean he was casually going to date whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted?  Suddenly she was confronted with everything she didn’t know about Hvitserk instead of everything she did and it was all she could focus on. She wrenched her thoughts away from that before her worries could get unbearably ridiculous, even for her. 

Eirik kept scary things in his refrigerator, he didn’t keep skeletons in his closet. Some of his friends were a little immature, but none of them were, in any way, cruel or dishonest, and Hvitserk was his good friend. She had to remember that. Gen wasn’t wrong about Hvitserk being kind or honest, because Eirik had known him longer and liked Hvitserk, and Angela was marrying Eirik, and Gen trusted Angela… and if this wasn’t the greatest way to do something, “I trust you because of this chain of people,” well… it worked for Gen right here and right now, and that was good enough. She’d have happily (well, not happily, but willingly) stayed holed up in their shared hotel room all day, brooding, if Whitney hadn’t dragged her out of it. 

“Out. Out! Do I have to take your key?” 

“What?” 

“I know you. You’ll wander the building for twenty minutes and then go right back in that room to sulk again! Either find something to do with yourself or hand over your room key. You’ve got my phone number if you need anything.” Gen glowered at her friend and kept her key. 

“I don’t need to hand over my room key. What are you going to be doing?”

“I am going to see some of the local sights. This is a beautiful city. People get married here, it’s so nice,” Whitney said, a little frustrated. “So it’s stupid to see nothing but the hotel room. You can come with me if you really want to, but you’re sulking, Gen. You need something to do, I know you. Go find Angela or her mom and volunteer.” Gen wrinkled her nose at Whitney.

“I am not sulking. I’m brooding.” 

“You’re trying my nerves, that’s what you’re doing. Go out and don’t come back until you’ve been useful enough to cheer up.” 

So she had, but Angela and her mother hadn’t been in their rooms, and when she’d called their cell phones, they hadn’t needed anything. They’d been on their way to get their nails done with the rest of the bridesmaids. Eirik wasn’t answering his phone. Gen thought of asking the ring-bearer to spill something again. Maybe she’d take a walk. It wouldn’t help her, she could tell from the way her thoughts were turning on themselves, gnawing, but it was something to do. It really only figured that the person she would run into on her way to the lobby was Hvitserk on his way back to his room. 

“Oh, Gen,” Hvitserk said, stepping into the elevator. Gen, for reasons she wasn’t sure of, didn’t get off. “What are you doing here?” 

“I needed something to do,” she said.

“Well, a couple of guys forgot to bring the chargers to their cameras. One of ‘em forgot the battery, too. I didn’t even bring a camera, so if you wanted—” 

“How could you not bring a camera?” Gen snapped. “It’s a wedding!” 

“I… didn’t think about it,” Hvitserk said slowly. He had the look of a confused man making no sudden movements. “There’s a photographer though, right?” 

“Of course there’s a photographer. That’s not the point! How can so many people be that irresponsible?” The elevator arrived at Hvitserk’s floor. He didn’t get off, just stood there staring at Gen. 

“I—” he cut himself off, probably stopping a reflexive apology. “That’s a little out of proportion,” he said instead. “It’s just a camera. There are other people with cameras. It’s not like anyone forgot the wedding rings.” Gen sighed hugely, almost a growl. 

“I’m tired of things falling apart around me and landing on me.” 

“And you think I’m not?” Hvitserk said, voice rising. The elevator doors closed again. Neither of them paid attention. “I had four people ride with me here, none of which I knew about twelve hours in advance! The groomsmen were a last minute—and I mean last minute—surprise, but I took them anyway!” 

“What, like you took Whitney out last night?” 

“What? That’s what this is about? I was paying her back for buying me lunch!” He stared. “Wait a minute, you kept saying you didn’t want to go out with me. So, what, you’re not going to date me, but nobody else can either?” 

“You never asked me out and you just said it wasn’t a date!” 

“It wasn’t! You said no, very clearly, so I didn’t have to ask. And you’re freaking out on me!” 

“It’s not about the dinner!” 

“So what is this about, Gen?” Hvitserk said, frustrated. “Because I don’t know!” 

“Well you seemed to know yesterday when you told me I could do what I wanted! So go on, Hvitserk, tell me it’s okay to be angry about being dumped on. You, who can’t deal with people who aren’t strangers on the other end of a telephone, who doesn’t say a damn word to anyone who’s actually involved in the situation, even when someone dumps four people on you at the last second! Even after I told Angela to call you when her parents needed a ride, you never said boo to her, did you? You just agreed, because that’s what you do, even though you’re secretly pissed off about it!” Hvitserk’s mouth gaped. Then he took a deep breath and started talking again. 

“That was you? That was you! You told Angela I’d drive her parents! How could you do that?” 

“I told her you had a van. She filled in all the rest of it on her own.” 

“She’s your friend! You knew she’d do that!” 

“So what? Nobody held a gun to your head and made you carpool!” 

“No, they just showed up in the driveway the morning of! It was either take them or go down in history as the schmuck who refused to drive the bride’s parents to her wedding!” 

“And you never said a word to any of them about it! You even told me you were never going to! How the heck is anyone supposed to learn to stop treating you that way if you don’t speak up and just keep letting them do it?” 

“This coming from someone who doesn’t know what to do when she likes someone who isn’t a schmuck!” 

“You’ve never met my exes!” 

“I’ve met you!” They glared at each other for a moment. 

“Yeah, you’ve met me,” Gen said quietly, intensely. “Poor Gen, who attacks the wrong people because she can’t let go of her sad, sordid romantic past. I bet you’ve imagined all sorts of things that might’ve happened to me that you can save me from, haven’t you? Well here’s news: I don’t need saving. People don’t need some grand tragedy in their lives to have fears!” 

“Obviously,” Hvitserk snarled. “Because you’re pretty well ruled by yours and are forcing everyone around you to be as well!” 

“I’m not the one who spent years making people think it was okay to use me as a doormat!”  

“Oh no? What were you doing with that parade of ex boyfriends you compare everyone else to?” 

“I was looking for something! I’m not still dating the people who use me, but you’re still friends with the people who use you!” She could tell that one stung and pressed the advantage. “That’s it, isn’t it? The more you like someone the more you can’t tell them no? No’s a real easy word, Hvitserk, two letters, one syllable. I use it all the time. No, I can’t do that. I’ve even said it to my exes. That’s why they’re my exes, because I dumped the worst ones. Did you think poor unhappy Gen was always the one dumped? Do I seem that desperate to you, Hvitserk? You said you thought I was unhappy. Well, guess what? I am. But I’m not unhappy all the damn time. A lot of people are unhappy. I bet you’re unhappy too, what with letting your friends walk all over you without so much as a contrary thought, much less a word.” A muscle in Hvitserk’s jaw worked. 

“You know what?” he said finally, quiet but heated. “You can’t expect me to stand here and listen to you tell me everything that’s wrong with me.” Hvitserk stabbed the ‘door open’ elevator button. “Bye.” Gen stood in the elevator, fuming. She hoped her glare burned a hole in the back of his shirt, that… that… The doors closed. 

She stabbed a button at random, one of the low ones, and when the doors opened on one of the guest floors she stormed off and took the stairs down to the lobby, not wanting to wait even one more minute in that elevator. No way was she going to coop herself up in her room. She marched right for the hotel doors, intending to go for a long, long walk. She ran into Angela’s mother in the parking lot. “Oh, Gen—oh, honey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she snapped, then reined herself in. 

“What is it?” Angela’s mother looked at her oddly. 

“I had a question, but it’s nothing important. You seem… busy,” she finished diplomatically. “I’ll ask someone else.” 

“I was going for a walk,” Gen said, very conscious of her tone and volume.

 “That’s a good idea,” Angela’s mother said calmly. “I’ll let Whitney and Angela know where you’ve gone to in case you’d like to turn your phone off. I’m sure you’ll feel better when you’ve come back.” 

“Yes,” Gen said. “Thank you.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself and left. The weather was suitably miserable, a thin, cold drizzle that barely qualified as precipitation. It was more like the sky was spitting on her. She suffered it for two blocks before she decided she’d had enough of that. Gen fished change out of her pocket and got on a bus to the city center. There’d be a bookstore. A big, big bookstore. She threw herself into an empty seat and pretended she was taking the bus all the way across the border. Forget running home, she was leaving the country. That’d show them. Who “they” were, or what she’d be showing, didn’t matter. What was important was that the fantasy of setting up shop and serving bear claws to Border Patrol kept her warm and satisfied until she got to the biggest bookstore in the city and holed up in an alley of printed paper where anything she might be feeling or any expression she might have could be blamed on the books.


	10. Chapter 10

Hvitserk slammed his hotel room door and immediately regretted it. Yeah, it was eleven o’clock in the morning, but this was a hotel. He still had neighbors. Even if they were all gone, Housekeeping was going to think he was crazy. So, when he went over to the bed, Hvitserk did not stomp, no matter how much he wanted to. He glared at the remote control without touching it. Who did she think she was, talking to him like that? How dare Gen jump down his throat like that? He wasn’t the one throwing people under the damn bus, volunteering them for things. He wasn’t the one jerking someone around on a string, playing do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do with mixed messages. He wasn’t the one flying off the handle because he took her friend out for a thank you. And Hvitserk definitely wasn’t one of her ex-boyfriends trying to turn her into some object. He was better than that. She’d said it herself, not even that long ago! He was a nice guy. Nice guys didn’t do that, so where did she get off accusing him of turning her into… into some… princess in his head, someone he could wrap up and heal and save? He’d been trying to help her! 

There she’d been, telling him some of her problems, looking so sad and confused and kissable and… and… he’d tried to solve her problems. He hadn’t been successful, though. He’d just said a few things, planted a few ideas. He certainly hadn’t saved her. Or had he? God knows he’d wanted to. Gen had somehow become another person in crisis to him, in addition to the sexy baker and the loyal friend. He’d wanted to fix her just like he always wanted to fix everything, and this time, this time, he didn’t want to call in the cavalry and never know what had happened to the heroine. He wanted to know the end of the story. The more he got to know her, the more he liked her—and the more he wanted to run out and put her up somewhere safe and happy while he went off to pummel anything that had ever hurt her. Caveman-like, yes, but… pretty much “prince on a white horse” material stripped of all its romance. The thing, the real thing that had his blood boiling and brain spinning, was that he couldn’t honestly believe Gen was wrong. She’d said it in what was probably the most hurtful way she could think of at the time, but it hit all his buttons. Sadly, none of what Gen had hurled at him was anything he hadn’t hurled at himself. 

Hvitserk was a doormat to his friends. And, as hard as he thought he was trying to keep that in the past, he wasn’t trying hard enough. Hvitserk had accused Gen of letting her problems rule other people’s lives, but here he was letting her do it. If he felt as if he didn’t have a choice, that was only because he’d given his choices away to other people and never so much as asked for them back. Well, starting right now he was taking them back. He was trying to help her fight her battles when it clearly wasn’t his place to do that, hanging around her so he could save her… but also so she could, maybe, save him from himself. That was the most unfair thing of all. If he couldn’t get his own act together, how could he expect her to do it for him? Gen had been mercurial, troubled, and maybe more than a little unfair, but she hadn’t ever lied to him. To herself, maybe, but not to him. Not in so many words. Hvitserk hung his head down so far below his shoulders he could feel the stretch in his back, and sighed. They needed to talk. Not about the past, or even the future… just the present was plenty enough.  

 

There was a cafe in the bookstore. Being essentially buried in the smells of books and baking bread was comforting, and, after she’d calmed down enough, Gen wandered through the shelves and let her thoughts wander, too. Ermintrude’s comments about wanting and needing had replayed in her head, bringing up more questions for her. How was she supposed to know what she wanted and what she needed? Gen didn’t think of herself as someone who dated people just because they were glittery or “dashing.” She’d gone out with boring men (sometimes that had been the problem). She was open-minded. She… …She had no idea what she wanted. Sure, she’d known what she thought she wanted, but those things changed so easily when they were challenged it was pathetic. She wasn’t fickle, and maybe that was a problem too, when combined with not knowing what she wanted. Gen was loyal to a fault, long past the point when she shouldn’t be. Her exes had hurt her that way. Some of them, and it pained her to admit this, had probably meant to. She had no idea what she wanted. 

Gen sat down on the floor of the historical fiction section and turned the idea over in her head. As monumental as that thought had been, it still didn’t feel right. Gen tried again. She couldn’t admit what she wanted, not even to herself. Closer, but still not close enough. She was just… reacting. Without thinking. And that, that thought, rang true. Her phone buzzed. She’d turned off the ringer, as Angela’s mom had suggested, but only to set it on vibrate. She had a text from Whitney. Where are you? Bookstore. want anything?  The phone buzzed. Lunch not more fudge. I’ll get something hot. Gen texted. Book or food? was the response to that, and she smiled. Both. Cool I’ll be in room. Gen stood up and stowed her phone in her purse, heading through the shelves back towards the bodice rippers. Whitney liked her books like she liked her junk food. She’d want something lighthearted and trashy, the more florid and purple the better. She bought the book, grabbed a couple of hot carved turkey sandwiches and found a park bench and sat.   
There was still enough time to brood, if she wanted, but the clouds had given way to sunshine, lunch smelled delicious, the placid-faced teenager sitting next to her had perky music leaking out of her earbuds… and somehow all this made her smile.  Life is ridiculous, she remembered Hvitserk saying. What can you do but laugh? Hvitserk was waiting on the bench outside the hotel doors when she got back. Gen slowed, but didn’t stop. It would have been pointless. He’d have seen her coming up across the parking lot unless he was really and completely not paying attention. He was paying attention. She could see his green eyes tracking her across the parking lot when she got close enough. Gen stopped when they were conversational distance away, standing to one side of the hotel’s automatic doors. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” she said, feeling the plastic bag’s handles dig into her fingers. It felt kind of grounding. She waited. 

“I think…” Hvitserk said slowly, elbows on knees, “that I owe you an apology.” Gen raised her eyebrows. But she said nothing, waiting.  “I… may have been trying to save you,” he said, “which sounds like a stupid thing to apologize for. I did say some deliberately hurtful things, and I think I came across as too aggressive, and that’s not me. I just… I’m sorry.” 

“So…” Gen said slowly, rolling that over in her mind with the hurt and frustration of a few hours ago, “you’re not sorry about what you said. Just how you said it.” Hvitserk sat up. 

“No. I am sorry about how I said it, but Gen, I’m not going to apologize for anything that’s true. Your exes—” 

“You leave my exes out of this.” 

“Well how can I, when everything you do and say to me is because you’re still reacting to them?” Gen pressed her lips into a line. 

“Fine,” she snapped, “apology accepted.” Then she marched through the hotel doors. Hvitserk rose to his feet, annoyed. 

“Don’t I get one too?” Gen turned. 

“Wow, you stood up for your right to be treated like a decent human being, Hvitserk. Good job.” She started for the elevators. 

“That isn’t an apology,” he said, following her at a distance so he wouldn’t have to yell at her across the lobby. Gen faced him when she got inside the elevator. “I know,” she said, and pushed the button to go up. 

 

“Hey,” Whitney said, when she opened the door. “How was…” she trailed off as she got a good look at Gen. 

“Here’s your book and the food,” Gen said. “I’m going to take a shower.” Whitney just nodded. Gen’s thoughts weren’t whirling this time, but they still turned in on themselves, slowly circling. She picked at them as she pulled on the water faucets and as the steam began to rise she climbed in. It wasn’t that she didn’t know her own mind. It wasn’t even that she didn’t know her own heart, because she did, truly, know it. Sometimes she ignored it but that wasn’t the same thing. Gen knew her mind most of the time… at least until she got upset and then reason was shoved out of the way by rampant over-thinking, but most of the time, she knew what she wanted. The problem, maybe, was that her mind and her heart didn’t trust each other. Gen knew who she wasn’t, but she was still figuring out who she was. 

She was Callie’s owner. She was Whitney and Angela’s friend. She was the head baker at Sweet Favors, the best bakery in town, and it was the best because it was hers. These things, at least, she knew beyond doubt. Gen shut off the water and got dressed. Whitney was waiting for her, cross-legged on her bed, eating. Whitney raised her eyebrows at Gen. Gen flopped face-down on her bed and sighed. “That good, huh?” Whitney asked. Gen nodded into the bedspread. 

“Wanna tell me about it?” Gen rolled over and sighed again. 

“I am an idiot, and Hvitserk is an idiot, and we are trying to see which of us is the biggest idiot. So no, it’s not ‘good’. It’s pretty far from ‘good.’”

“Oh-kay then.” Whitney shifted around on the bed to face Gen. “Details?” 

“We fought, and then he tried to apologize to me and we kind of almost-fought about the apology. There wasn’t much, most of it was just us repeating what we’d said to each other in new and hurtful ways.” She stared moodily at the ceiling. “I said he was a human doormat.” 

“Did you mean it?” 

“About seventy percent. He…” Gen sighed again. “He just won’t tell anybody no, but he tried to insist on an apology from me downstairs.” 

“When?” 

“Just now, when I came in. So he’s not a complete doormat. Maybe a stepladder.” Whitney snorted. Gen turned her head to see her friend smiling, a little. “Well, we know your sense of humor’s intact. What else?”

“He said I was reacting to my ex-boyfriends whenever I was with him.” Whitney nodded. 

“He’s probably right.” 

“What?” Whitney sighed, hugely, and got up to sit on Gen’s bed. 

“He’s not the Jerk, you know,” she said quietly. Whitney picked up a piece of fudge, worrying it into a ball. “Hvitserk doesn’t want some kind of idea of a girlfriend as a cell phone accessory. Hvitserk isn’t someone who doesn’t know what he wants and will leave when he figures that out, either. He sees you as the beautiful, generous, flawed person you are. He sees your amazing qualities and they outweigh the flaws.” 

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Gen said thickly, fighting tears. “I’ve been such a trainwreck—” 

“Exactly,” Whitney comforted, “and he likes you anyway. You both said some nasty things to each other and he liked you enough to apologize, even if he did make a mess of it. That just means he’s flawed too, so you can both be flawed together, if that’s what you really want. There is no possible way he could miss seeing you as your own person, and he likes that person. Even if he did somehow miss it, haven’t you been saying, you’re your own woman now? You can assert yourself. I’ll even help.” Whitney smiled. “If he hurts you I’ll kick his ass.” Gen laughed. 

“My hero.” 

“So are you going to apologize to him?” 

“I’ve got to, don’t I?” 

“Gen, you don’t have to do anything, but I think you should apologize to Hvitserk.” 

“Right. I—I’ll see him at the rehearsal dinner. He’s coming to that, isn’t he? Even though he’s not in the wedding party.” 

“I believe so. All the out-of-towners are.” 

“Right,” she repeated, miserable and nervous. “I’ll do it then.” Whitney cocked her head at her. 

“I know you just got out of the shower, but did you need another one? Wash hair, defuzz legs?” 

“No,” Gen smiled. “I’m good.” 

“Good. Then eat your lunch, young lady, and we are going to read…” Whitney snatched up the book Gen had gotten her. “…Taken in Tahiti together. Out loud.” Gen put a pillow over her face and snorted her way through a mix of giggles and tears. She was so grateful for her friends.


	11. Chapter 11

The rehearsal dinner wasn’t intended to be a fancy affair but Gen took extra care getting ready anyway. She made sure her long, curly black hair was dry and perfectly styled, and put on the second-best outfit she’d brought. She thought about painting her nails to match even though she’d just  have to take all the polish off before she went back to work. 

“What are you doing?” Whitney said as she zipped up her little black dress, which called attention to all the finest aspects of her athletic figure. She seemed to have noticed Gen’s dithering. 

“I’m trying to decide if I should paint my nails or not.” 

“Do you really want to paint your nails or are you stalling?” Gen thought about that one for a second before replying. 

“Stalling,” she confessed. 

She put on her shoes instead and sat down. “Well I’m ready,” Whitney said with one last flick of her hair. “Let’s go. If you panic I promise to read you the dirty parts of Taken in Tahiti during the dinner.” That made Gen snort unattractively, choking on a laugh. 

“At the table?” 

“You bet your heaving bosoms,” Whitney said firmly, and picked up the book. She flipped through the pages. “He pressed toward her. The heat of his burgeoning desire felt like a burning brand against the slick flowery petals of her untouched core—” Gen tried to snatch the book away and Whitney blocked her like a basketball player, her athletic figure slipping out the door. “Her cheeks flushed florid as his eyes smoldered, beholding her beguiling beauty with twin pools of purest blue, as the globes of his manhood brushed her silken thighs—” she read, fairly loudly, in the hallway. Gen hustled after her, snickering. 

“Give me that!” Whitney held the book out of reach. 

“Do you promise to be a brave woman and do your best? No undue angst? No panicking?” 

“Yes, okay, I swear, if you don’t—” 

“If I see any angst, Gen, I’ll bring out the book!” Whitney threatened, melodramatically. 

“I’ll be good,” Gen snickered. “Keep that thing in your purse. Christ!” 

“You’d better,” Whitney said as primly as if she hadn’t just threatened to read incredibly ridiculous trash at a wedding rehearsal dinner. “I’ll make sure Angela knows it’s all your fault, too.” 

“How is it my fault?” Gen asked, as they climbed into the car.

“You bought me the book.” 

“You asked me to!” 

“And I’m sure that’s a very solid criminal defense.” 

The rehearsal dinner was at an Italian restaurant, and the wine and chatter and laughter were free-flowing by the time Whitney and Gen got there, even though they were five minutes early and the couple of honor hadn’t yet arrived. Angela’s parents welcomed them both with hugs and showed them around as if they were the other sisters of the bride, finally letting them settle at an open table with two of Eirik’s cousins, a bridesmaid, her date…and Hvitserk, at a different table but still near enough to reach out and touch in the crowded restaurant. Whitney picked up her wineglass, swirled the wine, and gave Gen a pointed, half-lidded look through sparkling green eyes as she patted her purse. People are ridiculous and you just have to laugh. So Gen did, snickering into her own drink as the bread and salad got passed around and the guests stood up to applaud when Angela and Eirik finally showed up, fifteen minutes late. 

When the introductions had been made and the appetizers had been cleared away and the main dishes brought out, Gen leaned over in her chair and reached out to touch Hvitserk, lightly, on one muscular arm. “Hey,” she said softly, wishing he didn’t look so guarded—no, wishing he didn’t have good reason to look so guarded. “I really, really owe you an apology. Will you step outside with me for a minute?” He nodded, slowly, and held her chair for her, gesturing for her to precede him outside. They stood outside under the trees on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The tiny lights strung through their branches were enough to see by. This time Hvitserk was the one waiting. Gen, thinking of Whitney threatening her with a dirty romance book, took a deep breath, didn’t panic, and smiled at Hvitserk, soft and just a little bit sad. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For what I said and for how I said it. You might not stand up for yourself very hard, but you do stand up for yourself, and you’re trying to be better. You’re not a doormat. You’re trying to change when—when in truth, you’re already a better person than I am.” She swallowed painfully. “I can see that, and it was unfair of me to ignore and discount that.” Then she waited, trying to discern the thoughts behind his warm green eyes. 

“You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Hvitserk said, eventually. 

“But I didn’t say it kindly.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.” She shifted, and finally he sighed, sounding faintly frustrated. “Apology accepted. For the hard words, at least.” Gen felt confused. 

“What else is there?” He gestured back and forth between them. 

“This. Us. You know, the reason why we argued in an elevator.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and paid no attention to the wind. Gen took a deep breath, lowered her gaze, and let it out slowly. 

“I like you. I think… I might more than like you.” 

“Spell out ‘more than like,’ Gen.” 

“I think it would be very easy for me to fall in love with you,” she said, glancing up at him then back down at their feet, “I think I could, easily. I think about you, whether I want to or not. I want to be with you, spend time with you, see you smile… I want to be the reason why you’re smiling. I just… I don’t want to be your girlfriend. I don’t want to be ‘let down easy,’ or told I deserve better, or hear it isn’t working out. Not again.” She took a deep breath and looked up at him, hopefully. “I… I do like you, Hvitserk. A lot. Can’t we just be friends?” 

“No.” 

“What?” Hvitserk’s green eyes bored into her own hazel ones, dark in the dim light from the restaurant windows and light-strung trees. 

“No. If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine, but I’m not going to hang around lingering, wondering about the what-ifs that are always going to hang between us.” His voice took on a shade of frustration, became more intense, but never got any louder than the quiet conversational tones they’d started in. “I know you look at me. I look at you too. For God’s sake, Gen, I know what you taste like. I’m not going to forget that and be just another one of your pals. So yes or no, Gen, and if it doesn’t work out we’ll deal with it, but I’m not going to be your safe substitute.” Gen stood, stunned. She was dimly aware she might be gaping at him. Hvitserk smiled, just a self-deprecating little quirk of lips. “You think about it.” He went back inside. 

 

Hvitserk moved easily through the crowded restaurant, a smile and a few polite words clearing the way when his muscular body couldn’t slip through the maze of chairs and people. People he didn’t know greeted him warmly and shook his hand and he smiled and grinned and shook right back. 

“Hvitserk!” Angela’s dad called him over to introduce him to some more of Angela’s family. “This is Hvitserk Lothbrok, the gentleman who was kind enough to drive us here after our first ride fell ill.” Hvitserk smiled politely as the table applauded, not quite sure what to make of that. 

“It was nothing, sir,” he told Angela’s father, and the man laughed. 

“It’s not nothing to Angela or her mother and me, so I don’t want to hear you say that again. It’s a good thing you did, and I want to assure you we won’t be begging rides off you on the way home.” 

“Oh? I mean, you’re welcome to—” 

“No, no,” Angela’s father said, leaning back with a chuckle. “Her mother and I are taking a second honeymoon in Ireland after this.” 

“Congratulations.” 

“Thank you! We fly out on the 16th, and we fly straight home after—well, not straight, you understand, but as straight as air travel gets. We’d have flown in if Angela hadn’t needed our help in Kattegat beforehand.” 

“Well, I’m glad it worked out,” Hvitserk said. 

“So are we!” Angela’s father said, prompting the table to laugh, and then Hvitserk made it back to his seat. 

His dinner was still warm. Hvitserk turned the conversation with Gen over in his head as he ate and made casual conversation with Mr. Corn Chips. Multitasking was something he was very good at. Gen had apologized. He’d accepted it even though he was still angry, because he believed her. Even though she’d apologized sincerely, she still didn’t know what she wanted. She was still playing games with him and with herself, and the worst part was he had no way of knowing if she even realized it. He didn’t think she did, but he didn’t know her very well. Maybe she did have an idea what she wanted and this was how she got her entertainment. He didn’t know Angela very well either, not well enough to be able to tell if she’d be friends with someone that two-faced. It wasn’t that Hvitserk wanted to believe that, but he tended to hear a lot of the bad parts of a story, both through work and through gossip, and treachery floated in his head as one of many possibilities just like the movie outcomes he was so good at predicting. If this were a thriller, Gen would be playing him. If it were a romance… well, he didn’t watch many of those movies. Maybe he should start. It might give him a different perspective. 

Years ago he’d dated a woman who’d played him like that, who was crazy moody but crazy beautiful too… she’d made him feel like a million bucks, like he was the tallest man in the world. Hvitserk had given her anything she’d asked for and quite a few things she hadn’t, and she’d eaten it up and strung him along like telephone wire, cooing at him how sweet and nice he was. And she’d misused his credit cards and basically ripped him off, both emotionally and financially.  Gen wasn’t going to run internet scams or commit identity theft with his credit cards, he knew that. But she could betray him in any number of ways, because he could tell she was the sort of woman he’d fall for, hard. He was already half-way there, in fact. And with control of his heart, she could do almost anything. In that way, in that one way, she reminded him of that crazy ex-girlfriend. And Hvitserk wasn’t willing to be played with, to be strung along and played hot and cold and betrayed or dismissed. 

He should probably thank Gen for reminding him of that, for lighting the fire that set off the alarm and made him take back the control he’d slowly let slide. Maybe later, if they ever became close enough for her to understand it. Maybe he wouldn’t need to tell her. Maybe she’d hang back, and they’d never have the opportunity. It probably didn’t matter. He’d done it: he’d taken back another of his choices, and made it, and given it back. Now it was Gen’s turn. 

 

Gen followed him back inside less than a minute later. It wasn’t all that long to stand out on the sidewalk by herself but it had felt that way. She walked back into the restaurant, smiling and chatting with the people who greeted her with friendliness, even if she didn’t remember their names. With all the friends, family, the wedding party and their “and guests,” there were so many people that Angela and Eirik’s guests had practically the entire restaurant to themselves. She slid gracefully back into her seat across from Whitney, gracefully, with only a single glance at Hvitserk. He was talking to a groomsman he seemed to know, smiling just a little.

Gen thought it might have been one of the two he’d given a ride to. Whitney cocked her head silently, green eyes inquisitive. Gen just smiled and shook her head, then turned to talk to her neighbor, the date of one of the bridesmaids, while they waited for their dessert. 

“What happened?” Whitney asked, once they were back in the car, headed towards the hotel and Ermintrude’s room full of flowers. Most of the guests had headed over to participate in or to watch the rehearsal. Hvitserk was among them, having driven a carpool. She hoped it was one he’d volunteered for instead of been volunteered for. 

“Well, I apologized to him for what I said and how I said it,” Gen said, “and I kind of bared my confused, conflicted heart to him, so you don’t need to get out the book.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I told him I kind of maybe could fall in love with him without trying very hard, and then I said I didn’t want to be his girlfriend and asked to be friends.” She winced a little, waiting for the reply she no doubt deserved. It didn’t come how she expected.   
Whitney just sighed and asked, “And what did he say then?” 

“He said no.” Gen turned that moment over in her head, thoughtful, though no less conflicted. “He said he’d leave me alone if that was what I wanted, or we could try to have a relationship if that was what I wanted, and deal with whatever happened, or…” 

“Or?” 

“He said he wasn’t going to be my ‘safe substitute’ for love,” Gen told Whitney, softly. “And… I think…” 

“Yes?” 

“I think that’s what I’ve been missing.” 

“What?” Whitney’s eyebrows were raised in confusion. 

“I think that’s what I’ve been looking for—what I’m missing, since I know my mind and I know my heart, most of the time, anyway,” Gen qualified. “I thought it was that my heart and mind didn’t agree, because it’s not that I’m exactly lying to myself, I don’t think…” 

“So? What were you missing?”

“I’ve been looking for a safe substitute for love,” Gen told her, eyes on the traffic. They were quiet for a while, just the noise of the tires on the road.   
Then Whitney said, “There’s no such thing.” 

“I know,” Gen replied. 

When they reached the hotel, they changed clothes in comfortable silence and went to help Ermintrude with the flowers. Eirik’s aunt had made a special point of reminding them about it through the rehearsal dinner, and…well, it was something to do, and Gen liked the delicate, occasionally complicated and often slow work of untangling the flowers from each other without creasing or bruising them. It fit well with her thoughts and her need to keep her hands busy, like arranging raspberries around and around a custard fruit tart.  Hvitserk didn’t come to help them. While a very small part of Gen had wanted to see him, and a larger, more practical part would have welcomed the help… the rest of her was grateful that he hadn’t come. He’d asked her a question, and while he hadn’t given her a deadline… after the wedding Gen would be going home, and two weeks after that Hvitserk would be leaving Eirik’s apartment to go back to his home. The truth was so simple, now that she had the answer. 

She was afraid of love, afraid of it’s ending once she had it.  She wasn’t sure what the solution was. Did she say yes, and love Hvitserk—because she could, with so little encouragement, love Hvitserk—but although she knew he wanted her, would he love her back? Gen was going to challenge him. She couldn’t help it. She pushed at weakness when she saw it, trying to drive the flaws out of herself. It served her well at work, making better and better cakes and cookies and breads, never settling for pastry that was “good enough,” because no matter how flaky and delicate she got her pie crust, it could always be better. People weren’t like that, she was finding out. So would she say yes, love Hvitserk, and take the chance of driving him away and having everything fall apart? Or did she say no? Say no, and stay alone, comforted at night by Callie crowding her feet and softly snoring, and missing something she was afraid of reaching for?

She’d be happy, she knew she would. There’d be moments of contentment and triumph and joy even without a partner and being uninvolved would protect her from the hurt of a relationship’s end. The thing was… the weddings, the anniversaries, the celebrations… there’d be plenty of celebrations for her and plenty of good friends to share them with. Her friends had their own lives, just as she did, and if she were alone there’d be no one to share her life with. There would be no one to whom her own triumphs meant as much as they did to her, and nobody who would hurt along with her disappointments. It would be good between them if she told Hvitserk “yes,” she could tell… good enough to hurt like blazes when it ended. But what if it didn’t end? a part of her thought, and for some reason that thrilled her and terrified her in equal parts. She’d never gone into a relationship thinking of the end before, but she’d never gone into one thinking of forever either, not since her very first romance so, so long ago. So… here she was, sitting amongst the flowers in a hotel room the night before her friend’s wedding, chasing her thoughts in slow circles. 

Gen wasn’t sure what she was most afraid of any more… being with someone and losing herself, or being herself and being alone forever. But what if it didn’t have to be like that, her inner voice whispered. What if there are more than just two options? What if the past didn’t have a hold on her future? What if everything were wide open and waiting for her to reach out and jump for it. Gen didn’t know. The three women mostly worked quietly. Whitney helped Gen untangle bucket after bucket of flowers, Whitney’s soft swearing making Gen smile. She had odd comforts, Gen decided: complicated work and her best friend swearing at roses. Ermintrude filled vase after vase with water, picking through the plants as the younger women freed them, making arrangements.  She clucked and muttered to herself as she worked. Her eyes were still  sharp, but her mind may have been far away.. One couldn’t argue that she was good with the flowers, though. Every arrangement that grew under the old woman’s hummingbird-fragile hands was breathtaking, and Ermintrude obviously had very clear ideas where each and every one should go in the reception hall. The last of the stems untangled from each other, Whitney and Gen started putting together bouquets with the flowers Ermintrude pointed out to them. 

“I thought the cakes were the centerpieces?” Whitney said, tying masses of ribbons around a bridesmaid’s bouquet. 

“They are, they are,” Ermintrude assured her, fussing with greenery. “I’ve spent the last two days with Angela’s cousin, talking to the hotel staff and looking at the room.” Gen bit her lip to keep from smiling. The reception wasn’t at this hotel, but another, far fancier one with a much bigger reception hall. About half the guests were staying at this one, though, and the rest at one of two others, because it was so much cheaper. She could just imagine Ermintrude teamed up with Angela’s micromanaging know-it-all cousin against the poor hotel staff. The flowers probably all had placements as exact as those in a Balanchine ballet. 

“These smaller ones here go on the tables in a circle around the cake,” Ermintrude explained, “six of them, you see, evenly spaced with the place settings. And these, these big ones, these go on either side of the guestbook, and these twelve are for the head table.” She looked up and smiled at them both, face creased into a wreath of wrinkles, every one of them kind. “The rest go on the mantelpiece, and the windowsills, and this set over here around the main wedding cake. Say, ladies, do you think this needs another fern or another rose?” Whitney looked to Gen. 

“Fern,” Gen said, wishing her heart was as easy to decide on as the balance of color and texture in a vase of flowers. She turned to Whitney. “We have flowers and cake,” she said simply. 

“Right,” Whitney agreed, unspooling ribbon for another bouquet. “Flowers and cake, just go with it. Got it.” Gen looked at her own bouquet, then Whitney’s two. She leaned over to get a better look at the ones Whitney had made. “How did you arrange those? I want mine to match.” 

“Best way to have them match is to have the same person make them,” Ermintrude said sagely. “If you’ll let Whitney get on with those, I wouldn’t mind your help packing these up for transport,” she said, meaning the vases she was currently placing in boxes, wedging crumpled paper tightly around and between the base of each vase and the sides of the boxes so they wouldn’t move, slide, tip, or, God forbid, bruise the flowers. 

Ermintrude peered through her glasses and over the tops of the plants at the two younger women. “Which one of you two is riding over with them?” That’s right. Hvitserk wasn’t here with them packing up floral arrangements but he’d still promised to help take them to the hotel where the reception was being held. Gen gave Whitney an imploring look. “Please?” she begged. 

“Why does anyone have to ride with him?” 

“We can’t all three fit in my car,” Gen explained. “And not all the flowers will fit with Hvitserk, either. At least the bouquets are coming in my car.” 

“All right,” Whitney said. “I’ll go.” She glared halfheartedly at Gen. “But you owe me.” 

“Anything. Even more fudge.” 

“Not more fudge,” Whitney insisted, making a face. Eirik’s aunt perked up. “Did you say you brought fudge?” Whitney passed over the container of scraps. 

 

The wedding was at ten and cake delivery was at nine-thirty, so Gen, Whitney and Hvitserk gathered in Ermintrude’s hotel room at seven-thirty sharp, slowly wheeling box after box of flowers on luggage carts out to the portico. Whitney and Gen were pushing the carts. Ermintrude, content in Whitney and Gen’s flower transporting skills, stood with Hvitserk at his van overseeing the loading of them. Hvitserk didn’t comment once on Gen’s supposedly dubious cart-pushing skills. It seemed like a very, very strange thing to miss, but she did his poking fun at her. Hvitserk, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, was squinty-eyed and quiet, though that could have been simply because of the hour.   
It had been unreasonable of her to expect any kind of signal from him after he’d made clear the ball was in her court. It was unreasonable all over again given how much he wasn’t a morning person, but Gen found out she’d been hoping anyway, and that too was strange. Ermintrude was dressed for the wedding already, makeup soft, hair impeccable, clucking over which box went where. Now she reminded Gen more of a pigeon than a hummingbird. The bridesmaids’ bouquets, carefully nestled in tissue paper, were in Gen and Whitney’s hotel room. They’d been left there to be transported to the bridal suite in Gen’s car when she and Whitney went to the ceremony. They had to: it was clear that, having been unpacked and made into arrangements, not all the flowers would fit back into Hvitserk’s van. They did get everything into the two cars but it was a close call. 

Box after box, each with flowers erupting over the top, went into Hvitserk’s van, the placement of each and every one chosen by Ermintrude. It took a long time, and Whitney was literally packed into the front passenger seat unable to use one of both arms (Gen had had to fasten her seatbelt for her before they put in the last of the flowers), but every last box fit. Gen eyed what she could see of her friend, which was pretty much just an arm, a shoulder, an ear, and a bit of short blonde hair, and grinned. “Can you see?” she asked her friend, settling the last four boxes carefully into her car’s back seat. 

“I see flowers,” Whitney said. There was a rustling noise, maybe just from Whitney’s breathing. “Don’t crash the van, Hvitserk. I want to live.” Hvitserk laughed. 

“The flowers would cushion the impact, wouldn’t they?” he teased, climbing into the driver’s seat. 

“The broken vases from the crash would counteract that,” Whitney said flatly. 

“Ah, true,” he allowed. “Definitely cut to ribbons. Good thing I know first aid.” 

“You’re assuming that even if you survived the crash you’d survive the bride, her mother, her cousin, Aunt Ermintrude…” Gen ticked the people off on her fingers, smirking at Hvitserk’s look of mock horror. 

“I’ll be very, very careful.” He tried to look around Whitney, couldn’t, and got back out of the van to lean over the hood. “Are we following you to the reception hall,” he asked Gen, “or are you following us?” 

“You’re following me,” Gen said. Hvitserk smiled affably and climbed in the van. 

Gen got in her own car, thinking. He’s acting so… normal. Does he just not care, or…No. Hvitserk had said he would wait for her answer and she hadn’t given it yet. What’s wrong with me? I should be happy that he’s acting normal and not causing a scene the morning of our friend’s wedding, and all I can think of is how weird and lonely it is that I’m the only one conflicted. “Turn here, Gen,” Ermintrude interrupted her brooding. “It’s a shortcut.” 

“Ermintrude, that’s a one-way street.” 

“Oh really? Are you sure?” Gen let go of her brooding and laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

Angela’s cousin and her family were waiting for them at the hotel hosting the reception, which made unloading the flowers a joy… in the most sarcastic sense possible. Unloading went faster with the extra hands, but it also meant they had two supervisors, the hummingbird-pigeon hybrid that was Ermintrude and a bossy, clucking mother-hen. Gen felt a lot like Alice in Wonderland: surrounded by flowers and getting bossed around by birds. She said as much under her breath as she leaned into the van to get a box and Hvitserk, who’d been leaning in through the other door, heard her and started to laugh, choking it down quickly before someone asked him why. Gen flashed him a quick grin and carried her load inside. 

Ermintrude was supervising where to put the boxes down. Angela’s cousin, who’d recently given up on harassing Gen, Whitney, and Hvitserk, was now harassing the hotel staff instead. Politely. “It’s like she knows everything about everything,” Whitney muttered, grouchy. 

“Since the beginning of recorded history,” Gen finished. The two of them eyed Angela’s cousin surreptitiously. 

“Of course she does,” Hvitserk said smoothly as he walked by with a vase in each hand. “Just ask her.” Gen picked up a vase and asked Ermintrude where it went. 

“There now, dear,” Ermintrude said, taking the vase from her and setting it down so she could shoo Gen off with both hands. “Don’t worry about that! You and Whitney, you go get ready! And if you love any of us, don’t forget the bouquets!” 

“I won’t,” Gen promised her, snagging Whitney. 

“Not you!” Angela’s cousin snagged Hvitserk. “You only need to comb your hair, put it up, and put on a tux. Twenty minutes, tops. You’ll stay right here and help me move this.” 

“Help me,” Hvitserk mouthed to Gen. Gen saluted him and didn’t intervene as Angela’s cousin dragged him off. Whitney hummed the first bar of taps. 

“Don’t worry,” Ermintrude patted Gen’s arm and stood up on tiptoes to whisper to her. It was a loud whisper, possibly because Ermintrude couldn’t hear very well. “It’s only eight-fifteen. I’ll save him in half an hour.” Gen smiled at Eirik’s aunt, waved at Hvitserk, and beat a hasty retreat. Her phone rang as soon as they walked into the hotel. 

“Where are you?” Angela sounded panicked. 

“Don’t worry,” Gen assured her, “we’ve got the bouquets and they’ll be waiting for you at the ceremony—” 

“You mean you’re not coming here?!” the bride squeaked, upset. “Antonino’s ready to do your hair!” Gen blinked. 

“What? What are you talking about?” Whitney gave her a curious look too, interest aroused by the baffled frown on Gen’s face. 

“Oh my gosh, didn’t I tell you?” Angela’s pitch went up, climbing steadily towards hysterics. 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Gen insisted. “Whatever it is it’s fine, just tell me what it is.” 

“I thought you were coming to get ready with us you and Whitney and I know you’re not in the bridal party but you’ve both done so much that I thought—and I don’t know why it’s not traditional or anything but you’re such close friends I made arrangements for your hair and makeup to get done with ours and it’s not a big deal but I really think I’m panicking and—” 

“Angela! Breathe!” 

“Hello, Gen.” It was Angela’s mother on the phone. “Are you two dressed yet?” 

“Um, no,” she said, walking into the hotel room and shucking her sneakers. “Whitney and I just got back after dropping off the flowers at the reception hall, and we were going to get dressed and bring over the bouquets.” 

“Okay,” Angela’s mother said pleasantly. “Would you mind coming over to put on your finishing touches here and wait with us once you’re dressed? I think it would mean a lot to Angela.” That was apparently an understatement. Gen started to laugh. 

“Yes, yes I’d love to. Whitney? Want to get your hair done with the bridesmaids?” 

“What?” Whitney looked up from her luggage. She grinned, green eyes sparking. “Sure.” 

“We’ll be there,” Gen told Angela’s mother. “Try to keep the bride together.” 

Angela’s mother laughed. “Don’t worry, Gen. We’ve got waterproof mascara.”

 

Gen and Whitney, dressed and armed with bouquets, walked into the bridal party’s room midway through a story Angela’s mother was telling her daughter about her own wedding. “And the officiant was looking in the windows of the room where the bridesmaids were getting ready!” Everyone in the room looked at the windows almost as one. 

“The minister?” Angela squeaked. “Really? You never told me that part before!” 

“Really,” her mother said dryly. “He was a chaplain your grandfather knew from the War. Of course, I didn’t find out about the peeking until after the ceremony. Somebody told me when your father and I were trying to find the man.” 

“Why’d you need to find him?” Whitney said, setting down the flowers. Gen sat down and a ruthlessly-groomed man who smelled of hairspray smiled and introduced himself as Antonino before he started asking questions about her hair. 

“Because he didn’t sign the wedding papers,” Angela’s mother said, also dryly. “Luckily your father’s counselor, another minister, had also said a few words at the ceremony. He signed the papers for us and it just meant the world to your father and the minister both. He and your father were very close, you see. They’d known each other since your dad was a kid, and the poor man died just a few years after we were married.” 

“Wow,” said Gen, moved. Emotionally. Physically she held stock-still while Antonino had both hands in her long black hair. “Did anything else go wrong?”   
Angela’s mother laughed. “Almost everything else went wrong, Gen.” She smiled fondly at Angela. “It might be why Angela’s so nervous. She’s grown up hearing these war stories of mine. Let’s see… During the reception the ring-bearer, who was four, was peeing in one of the flower beds. When the ceremony started the flower girl stopped in the middle of the aisle and refused to move. Her father had to pick her up and carry her, and when she threw her little basket in protest she hit someone with it.” The memory obviously no longer upset the woman, as she was smiling. “The best man locked his knees…” Whitney chortled. 

“Pass out?” 

“Oh, down like a tree,” Angela’s mother told her. “Before the exchange of the rings, naturally.” 

Gen listened to the flow of conversation, the bridesmaids sharing their horror stories once Angela’s mother had run out of her own. The stories after that changed to vacations and shopping trips and family dinners, all with their husbands or boyfriends, and all with something, sometimes multiple somethings, going wrong. What had seemed at the time to be disastrously wrong, anyway, but nobody had died: only one story featured someone being seriously hurt (falling off the roof trying to string Christmas lights), and no matter how huge the arguments had been, something was clear in all the stories. Love. 

They were all stories about love, even if it wasn’t always obvious. There was laughter over what had once been all consuming frustrations and heartbreak, frustration and heartbreak that had over time and through love faded until they were now just funny stories with which to amuse each other, to calm a bride and make her laugh on her wedding day. The maid of honor had forgiven her sister for forgetting her; the bridesmaid whose husband had fallen off her parents’ roof trying to “fix” their Christmas lights was healed and whole now; and the bridesmaid whose boyfriend had utterly ruined a camping trip to Yosemite by making her cry on her birthday, alienating her best friend, and crashing the car, well… they’d worked that out too, had forgiven and apologized and changed, and they were getting married this June. In Yosemite. Hair done, makeup perfect, Gen sat back and listened to these stories and thought of how they applied to her own life and her own past loves. There hadn’t been a terrible lot of forgiveness in her love life… just forgetfulness, and that wasn’t nearly the same thing. None of these women had forgotten a damn thing, but they didn’t cling to it. They’d moved on. 

Gen thought about Hvitserk, and about falling off a roof or ruining her vacation or having a screaming match in front of her parents at Thanksgiving dinner, and realized… if he stayed, if they talked, if he was sorry and worked to change and fix and mend… she could probably forgive him all that too. She hadn’t forgiven her exes, she’d let things go… and that was different. It wasn’t her answer. Forgiveness and realizing the difference between “forgive and forget” and “forgive and move on” wasn’t a guarantee about a relationships end. It wouldn’t protect her from pain, it’d just… work through pain. Maybe, though, it was a step  
closer to her answer.


	13. Chapter 13

Hvitserk watched Gen's escape from the reception hall with envy and a little wry respect. Not only hadn’t she rescued him, she’d had the cheek to salute. Saluting the soldiers going off to die, he’d thought as he was dragged away by the elbow to adjust vases on one of the grand mantels while Angela’s cousin stood twenty-five feet away and gave him orders. He didn’t especially mind this: it was obvious that Angela’s cousin wasn’t ordering him around because she thought he’d be okay with it, Angela’s cousin was ordering him around because she ordered everyone around and didn’t care if they were okay with it or not as long as they did what she said. Her husband took her orders with long-suffering patience (her children used a lot more eye-rolling when they thought their mother couldn’t see), calmly giving vases a quarter turn this way and that. Hvitserk snorted to himself. He certainly wouldn’t have married her, not with that attitude, but it took all kinds. He suffered through fifteen minutes of the Micromanagement of The Flowers before Eirik's Aunt Ermintrude came to his rescue. 

“I need to borrow this strong young man, dear,” she’d said, beaming at Angela’s cousin even as she gently pulled a very willing Hvitserk away with a light hand on his arm. 

“Yes, of course, now the cakes are coming at nine-fifteen,” Angela’s cousin dictated to her husband and eldest child, marching smartly towards the head table. Hvitserk looked down at the old lady. 

“Dear lady, I owe you a present,” he said in his most theatrical tones. He was rewarded by Ermintrude’s laughter. 

“Oh, you’re a crackerjack, you are.” She patted his arm again. “Go on and get out of here before she notices you’re not lifting something heavy for me. And don’t let that young lady discourage you.” 

“What?” 

“The baker, with the black hair. Gen.” Ermintrude smiled at him shrewdly. “I may not see as well as I used to, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see. Don’t let her wear you out, dear. I was a little like her, in my misspent youth. I ran my poor Clement ragged before I finally settled down, but he told me every day for the rest of his life I was worth every second, and I think Gen will be too, if you can just outwait her.” Hvitserk smiled softly. 

“But what if I don’t want to outwait her?” Ermintrude cocked her head, glasses glinting. “Well, then, you’ll never know what a woman you’ve missed, but that’s your business, isn’t it?” Then she smiled again and winked. “Go. I can hear Mussolini coming back from the kitchens.” Hvitserk snickered. 

“Careful, I’ll tell Angela you said that.” 

“I hope you do, Hvitserk. It might make her laugh.” The old lady flapped her hands at him as she’d done at Gen, but it was Angela’s cousin’s clipped tones echoing from the open staff door that really made Hvitserk book it to the exit before he could be caught again. 

He was almost embarrassed to find out that Angela’s cousin was correct: he’d showered and shaved before loading the flowers, so tuxedo on, combed hair, man bun, and twenty minutes later he was ready. He fussed with his tie for a few moments longer before giving up and heading to the ceremony anyway. He arrived almost an hour early. Eirik and the groomsmen were there, and many guests were already present, mingling, but he didn’t see Gen or Whitney. Several guests had claimed seats, leaving coats or cameras or bags behind, or even just programs. He wasn’t sure how anyone would be able to tell in a dispute just whose identical program was in which seat, and the thought amused him. Feeling a need to stretch his legs before sitting through a long ceremony and reception, Hvitserk wandered around the venue. 

“Hey there.” Hvitserk turned. A pretty woman in an eggplant-colored dress was smiling at him. 

“Hi,” he said. The woman’s smile grew dimples. Flirty ones. She introduced herself as a high school friend of Angela’s. 

“Bride or groom?” she asked. 

“Groom, originally,” Hvitserk said, smiling back, “but a bit of both now.” 

“Yeah, Angela’s like that,” the woman agreed, leaning closer. “So, where are you from?” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was trying to pick him up. Hvitserk made easy conversation and allowed himself to be flattered. She was good at it, at the shallow glitter people used when fishing for dates. She was polished and pretty and looking for a good time as sparkling as she was. For a split second he was reminded of Eirik's Aunt Ermintrude, and wondered if this was how she’d been when she was young and dating other men while her future husband waited her out. Hvitserk took a step back inside himself, watching himself and the pretty woman in her deep purple party dress. Two weeks ago he’d have asked her out for a drink. Two days ago he wouldn’t have been sure of the answer to the question “are you here with anyone?” Ermintrude had advised him to wait. Would he wait for Gen? He already was waiting. He’d wait for her a while, too, but not forever. Was Gen worth waiting for? Well, he didn’t know. But he really, really wanted to find out. He wanted to find out if she was as foggy in the evening as he was in the morning, if they could balance their schedules when he got home from work a few hours before or after she got up to go to work. He wanted to be part of her life, to meet the cat she’d told him about, to learn to orbit the controlled chaos she lived and breathed.  

It had been hard that morning loading the flowers with her. That it was so early in the morning had been both help and hindrance. Help, because he found it hard to talk and pretty much just had one expression before nine—squinty—so it was easy not to influence her decision that way. A hindrance because he was sleepy and Gen looked so good, tired but smiling, surrounded by flowers, and he’d wanted more than anything else to hug her. Well, to hug her and to go back to sleep. It had been hard not to give in to that, at least until he’d really started to wake up. He’d wait for Gen. He wouldn’t wait forever, and he didn’t know how long, but he’d wait longer than a morning, longer than a wedding, longer than two weeks of house-sitting. 

“I’m not exactly here with someone,” he told the pretty, purple gowned woman, “but there is someone whose answer I’m waiting for.” He smiled at her as charmingly as he knew how to be. “You deserve to be more than someone’s second choice.” 

She smiled at him, blonde hair falling charmingly around her face as her head tilted. “Aren’t you gallant,” she said, and winked at him. “But I’ll decide what I deserve. If you’re still alone at the reception, handsome, I’d like to claim a dance.” Hvitserk shook his head ruefully.   
“Here now, you’re trying to eliminate the competition.” 

“Of course. You won’t tell me who she is?”

“Nope, sorry. I like this one, and if she wants me I’d rather you didn’t scare her off.” 

Ushers were directing the guests to take their seats. The woman pouted. “Well, come find me if you change your mind.” 

Hvitserk watched her go, swaying gracefully on high, high heels. He took his own advice and laughed quietly. No dates in over a year, and now he had one woman he wanted and had just met a second one who wanted him. He took his seat and scanned the crowd for Gen. He caught a glimpse of her right before the actual ceremony began, sitting with Whitney. She looked beautiful. She looked thoughtful, and happy, and peaceful. Hvitserk's heart caught in his chest. Gen was so lovely right then, and she looked as though, right in that moment, she didn’t have a worry in the world. He wanted to see that look every day for a long, long time. It worried him, actually... He’d told her he’d pursue a relationship or leave her alone and he’d stand by her choice and he’d meant it. And he really, truly wanted it to be her decision. He wouldn’t make it for her and didn’t want to. Hvitserk just also knew the answer he wanted Gen to give him. Then the bridal march started, and he turned with everyone else to watch the bridal party advance. 

When he looked back, after the bridesmaids had passed, he couldn’t see Gen any more. He’d think of it later: today, right now, he was supposed to be paying attention to something else. He watched Angela come to stand beside Eirik, smiling at him. Eirik looked proud and scared and happy and a little as though he’d been hit by a truck. And when Angela, still smiling, recited her vows and promised Eirik “all my tomorrows,” Hvitserk was surprised to see his friend start to choke up. He felt... awed was not the right word. Respectful wasn’t quite close enough. Hvitserk sat back in his chair and sent his best wishes toward his friend and his new wife. They deserved it. 

 

The wedding was beautiful. To Gen's mild surprise (and after all the fuss over waterproof mascara) Angela didn’t cry at all. It was Eirik who started getting a little misty during the vows, and Gen smiled, touched. They really love each other. I’m glad. The warm feelings lasted through the end of the ceremony and the dispersal of the guests. Angela ran over to catch Gen before she left, her gown hiked up so she could hurry. 

“Gen! Come take pictures with me.”

“Really?” Gen felt a smile blooming on her face. “I thought it was just supposed to be the wedding party.” 

“I wouldn’t be having a wedding if it weren’t for you and Whitney and all the work you’ve done!” Angela hugged her, hard. “I’d have gone mad! You have to take pictures with Eirik and me. Where’s Whitney? She hasn’t left yet, has she?” She hadn’t, and they had their pictures taken with Angela, singly and together, and with Angela and Eirik both. Looking around at the bridal party, and at the bride and groom and their families, smiling and laughing, Gen thought about Angela’s fears before her wedding, how horrified she’d been that something would go wrong, or that Eirik's family wouldn’t like her, or how a lot of marriages ended in divorce, so what was the point? The point was that they didn’t know that when they got married. They just loved, and went after what they thought was right. It was easy for Gen to see that anybody in Eirik's family worth liking would like Angela, but Angela still worried. Now here they were, buoyant with good feelings and relief. There’d be hard times, all relationships had rocky patches, but today was a day for celebration.  Gen grinned and nudged Whitney with her shoulder. 

“You ready for the open bar?” 

“God yes,” Whitney said, and started laughing. “Let’s go, shall we?” 

 

The cakes were gorgeous, all eighteen of them, and the wedding cake on its separate table surrounded by flowers. Hvitserk noticed that someone had put some of the same fresh flowers from the arrangements on each cake. Probably Ermintrude, Hvitserk thought. Everywhere were ribbons and flowers and cake and soft music, quiet conversation, and warm laughter. The reception was just as lovely as the wedding had been. It was also more tense—at least it was for Hvitserk. He’d looked for Gen after the ceremony had ended and the guests scattered, heading towards the reception, but he hadn’t found her. He hadn’t seen her at all since the beginning of the ceremony.

Sitting at the reception, watching the flow of the crowd, Hvitserk certainly saw Gen now. Actually, from the way the tables were set up and where they both were sitting he had a very good view of Gen, and she of him... he’d noticed her glancing at him, but whenever he’d tried to catch her, her gaze had been elusive.  She looked amazing. The dress she wore brought out her eyes and showed off her lovely, curvaceous figure to perfection. He wasn’t going to stare, he wasn’t... but he also wasn’t able to keep his eyes off of her. A quiet argument tore his attention away from trying not to stare at Gen. He noticed that several of the guests were trying to snatch favors away from each other, and snickered.

“Excuse me,” one of the guests said, pointing at Hvitserk's untouched favor that he’d set off to one side of his place. “Are you going to take home your favor?” 

“If you want it, you can have it,” Hvitserk said with feeling. 

“Really?” The guest looked surprised. “Are you sure?” 

“Trust me,” he said, amused. “I’m really sure.” He’d eaten a lot of fudge over the last few days, even after fighting with Gen. He imagined that Gen and Whitney were probably “allowing” other guests to take home their favors, too. They’d been sleeping in Fudge Central for days now. Hvitserk looked over at Gen again and caught her in that very act, as a matter of fact—insisting to another guest that no, no really, they could have her favor. He grinned. Gen looked up. Their eyes met, briefly, and then she looked away. 

Hvitserk frowned. What had happened to the peace he’d seen before the ceremony? Would she give him an answer before the end of the wedding reception? Because as much as he wanted to see her again, it had to be her decision. He’d wait for her, but he wasn’t going to chase her down. He thought about it during the rest of the reception: while the bride and groom circulated, greeting and thanking their guests, while the food was eaten and the toasts were made. The toasts briefly took his attention away from Gen again. Hvitserk was amused to see that someone had let the groomsman he’d dubbed the King of the Unintentionally Awkward Story get hold of the microphone to make a toast... or at least, nobody had been fast enough to stop him. Hvitserk caught a glimpse of a woman in a champagne-colored cocktail dress looking pained as she failed to snatch the microphone away before the King began his speech. 

The story the man told was as long and every bit as uncomfortable and embarrassing as Hvitserk could have wished, and the beauty of it was that the guy had clearly meant it in the spirit of camaraderie, well-wishing, and respect. Awkward and oblivious to it as the King was, there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. There’s one at every party, Hvitserk thought, incredibly entertained. He’d be able to tease Eirik about that story for years. The King’s wasn’t the only awkward story, either, especially not as the wine flowed. For the most part, though, they were all good because they were all meant in love. He cringed as someone’s grandfather tried to give a lecture about “caring for your spouse” beyond the honeymoon and was grateful when Angela’s mother managed to take the microphone away from him... five seconds after it had abruptly lost power. 

He saw Gen next to an obviously disapproving Whitney. Gen, looking both amused and shocked, was trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. She was hiding her snickers behind her hand and looking at something in the back of the room. Hvitserk followed her gaze over to the back of the reception hall... Angela’s cousin, clearly on the war path and looking smug about it, was standing next to the DJ, having obviously just told him to cut the mike. Hvitserk looked back at Gen, and this time she caught his eye, and smiled, and raised her glass to him in a silent toast, hazel eyes dancing. Hvitserk raised his glass to her and drank. 

He watched her and thought about what that might have meant while the bouquet was tossed (Gen was not in the crowd of women to catch it) and the garter thrown (Hvitserk was not in that crowd either), and the cake was cut... after which all the cakes were cut, making two things obvious. The first was that there were three kinds of cake between eighteen tables, and the guests started to wander from table to table, sampling each other’s centerpieces. The second was that even with ten people to a table, this was still a lot of cake. He ran into one of his former passengers, Mr. Corn Chips. The groomsman had his tie undone and a plate with all three kinds of guest cake and the wedding cake. Hvitserk still couldn’t figure out how the man ate so much. 

“Hey!” the groomsman greeted him happily. “Hvitserk! Have you tried the cake?” 

“Yes,” Hvitserk said dryly. “I’ve tried the cake.” 

“S’good, isn’t it? Lucky for us it looks like there’ll be a lot of leftovers. Hey, do you think the caterers have take-home boxes?”

It was a good question, but if they didn’t, Hvitserk would bet anyone ten dollars that Angela’s cousin would have made them get take-home boxes by the end of the reception. Something occurred to Hvitserk. 

“Hey,” he said to Mr. Corn Chips before the guy could wander off. “I’m leaving after the reception tonight.” 

“What? Really?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got to work tomorrow night. How’re you getting home?” The man waved the question away with his cake fork. 

“Don’t worry about it. Me an’ the other guy are getting train tickets, and I want to thank you for taking us on like that at the last minute. That was a really lousy thing to do to somebody, and you were really cool about it.” He stuck the fork in his cake and held out his hand for Hvitserk to shake. 

“Thanks.” Hvitserk froze, shocked. Then, smiling, shook the groomsman’s hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I was able to help.” Then, because he remembered who he wanted to be, he carefully added “but I really appreciate the apology too.” Mr. Corn Chips laughed and took up his cake fork again. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet! If that had been me I’d have been pissed, I’d have been on the phone to yell at somebody.” He grinned at Hvitserk and wandered off, jauntily. “See you later. Have a safe trip back.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Hvitserk turned, in much better spirits, to look for Gen. He caught a glimpse of her skirts and saw her talking with the caterers. Her nimble, capable hands were making box-shaped gestures, and he smiled. 

The baker had beat the micromanager in arranging for cake boxes. She looked up, and their eyes met across the reception hall. Hvitserk smiled and shrugged, and he watched uncertainty wash over her face. What was that about? He frowned, and the look intensified before Gen turned away, talking briskly with some of the caterers. The ebb of the crowd blocked his view of her, and when he could see the table again, she wasn’t there. He caught a glimpse of the woman in the eggplant-purple dress, who’d flirted with him earlier. She was chatting up another groomsman, and winked at him when she saw Hvitserk before going back to her conversation. He shook his head, amused, and went back to looking for Gen. Gen wasn’t a liar. He’d been ridiculous to wonder, even for a moment... and he didn’t like the idea of the thought that had gotten him through the drive here, of thinking that people were stupid so he wouldn’t think they were malicious. Gen wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t malicious. She’d worked her tail off for this wedding and Hvitserk had been there to see a lot of it. She’d been stressed, and probably sleep-deprived, and conflicted...and she hadn’t been playing with him. Not on purpose. 

Gen had been playing games with herself and Hvitserk had gotten caught in the current. He couldn’t regret it, though, because he had such an insight into the person she was, and all the parts of her he didn’t know about yet... Ermintrude was right. Complicated women were worth waiting for. He spotted Gen on the other side of the dance floor opposite him when the dancing started. Hvitserk could see her watching Eirik dance with his mother and Angela with her father. She was stealing glances at Hvitserk, unhappiness warring with some emotion he couldn’t name in her face. His heart felt sore. Even with everything that had happened in the last few days the last thing he wanted was for Gen to be unhappy. He could force the issue and maybe they’d be happy for a little while, and maybe it’d last... but it would always be between them. Hvitserk certainly wouldn’t be able to forget about it, ever, and he thought that Gen probably wouldn’t either. This had to be Gen's decision. He wasn’t going to chase her down... ...but maybe he could give her some inspiration. Hvitserk wove his way through the laughing, celebratory crowd until he was in front of Gen. She looked at him, searching. Hvitserk brought out his most charming smile, bowed low, and held out his hand. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?” 

Gen tilted her head, a few pieces of curly long hair falling attractively around her face. She looked tired, and happy to see him, and charmed in spite of herself. “Just a dance?” she asked. 

“Just a dance.” Hvitserk smiled wider. “Maybe it will help you make up your mind.” She smiled at him, and for just a second that was all Hvitserk could see. Then he felt the warmth of her hand in his, and grinned at her as he guided her out to the dance floor. The music was campy and slow, standard wedding fare, and he laughed quietly, deep in his chest. 

“What?” Gen asked, looking up at him. 

“Just caught up in the romance of the eighties,” he explained, and was rewarded by hearing her giggle. Hvitserk moved them slowly over the parquet floor, absorbed in Gen's presence. Her curves, the strength of her back under his hand, the warmth of her hand in his. The smell of her hair. He drew her closer with a hand on the small of her back and felt the slight pressure of her body against his.  She stepped back slightly look at him as the song drew to a close, hazel eyes soft and searching “Did that help?” he asked, quietly. Her head tilted... ...Naturally this was when the music changed to “YMCA.” Hvitserk closed his eyes, pained, until he heard Gen laugh and tug on his hand. 

“Come on,” she said, teasing, eyes dancing. “I’ll bet you a cinnamon roll I’m better at bad dancing than you are.” 

 

Gen stood to one side of the dance floor watching the couples move across the parquet. She felt melancholy. Wistful. As if she wanted to skip to the end, the way she always did when reading books. She’d made a decision about her decision... whatever happened she was going to give Hvitserk her answer tonight. She just needed to be sure of what it was. She knew there were no guarantees of the future. She knew she couldn’t even be certain of Hvitserk until she’d gotten to know him better, but if nothing else Gen needed to be sure of herself tonight. Movement and a flash of dirty blonde hair caught her attention and she saw Hvitserk walking towards her. Gen looked at him, looking for some hint in his face, anything that would tell her what she needed to know to be able to say what she wanted to with a clear conscience. Hvitserk smiled at her, gentle and understanding and charming as a Golden Age Hollywood hero. He bowed low, hand held out like the men in the old movies. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?” 

She tilted her head, charmed despite how tired she was, physically and emotionally. “Just a dance?” 

“Just a dance,” he told her, smiling. “Maybe it will help you make up your mind.” 

Gen took his hand and let him guide her out onto the parquet. His hand was steady, and his shoulder, when she rested her other hand on it, was strong. He held her gently and with certainty, without doubt or distraction, as if she was the only thing in the world and he had no place better to be. She heard him laugh, quietly. 

“What?” she asked, wondering what was funny. 

“Just caught up in the romance of the eighties,” he murmured. Gen hadn’t been paying any attention to the music until that moment, and once she did she couldn’t help giggling. Hvitserk gave her a roguish smile and she followed the gentle pressure on her back, swaying closer against his muscular frame. She was tempted to lay her head on his shoulder, but that would have meant... breaking something, some bubble of peace and tension, and she couldn’t bear to do it for reasons she couldn’t put to words. So she just danced, trusting him to guide her as they drifted across the floor and her mind drifted too, focused on nothing but the smell of his cologne and the sensation of being in his arms, and the traces of warmth she felt in the air between them. The song wound down. Gen stepped back, looked at him. Her mind was quiet for the first time in weeks. She knew. “Did that help?” Hvitserk asked quietly. Gen could see other questions unasked in his warm green eyes. Yes, yes it had made up her mind for her. She finally knew what she wanted  and could accept it, and admit it and ask for it. She tilted her head, ready to tell him... And then the Village People happened. 

Hvitserk closed his eyes, looking pained, and Gen laughed and laughed. Life was ridiculous. “Come on,” she said, bouncing on her feet. “I’ll bet you a cinnamon roll I’m better at bad dancing than you are.” 

“You didn’t answer my question!” Hvitserk shouted over the music, following her out into the mass of people dancing as hilariously bad as they knew how. A man in his sixties was impersonating a sprinkler, flanked on either side by the bride and groom both dancing the lawnmower. 

“I’ll tell you after the reception!” Gen called, and threw her arms up into the letters. When the very next song turned out to be the “Macarena” Hvitserk (and half the guys on the dance floor, especially the ones who hadn’t been drinking) abandoned ship. 

“Find me later,” he said, leaning in close so he could say it in her ear, breath tickling the fine hairs and making her shiver, “because I’m holding you to your promise.” 

“Deal.” Gen smiled at him and nobly refrained from calling him a coward for ducking out of the Macarena. She wound up in a long line of women that included Whitney, Angela, Angela and Eirik's mothers, all the bridesmaids and Eirik's Aunt Ermintrude (who somehow managed to dance the Macarena delicately and politely). People were cheering and taking pictures, and Gen, a little self-conscious but enjoying herself anyway, laughed until she was breathless. People started filtering out not long after that. 

Angela’s cousin had stationed her two teenage children at the door to offer guests takeout boxes, but that wasn’t the way to do it. Most people wouldn’t reverse course to go back for cake after they’d already said their goodbyes. Gen popped by the doors. She snatched up a stack of boxes and grinned at the kids. “That’s not the way to do it. Wish them a pleasant evening and a safe trip and thank them for coming. You’re relieved of all your other duties. I’ll take the heat from your mom.” The teenagers looked a little less sulky after that. Boxes in hand and huge smile in place, Gen waded right into the thick of the remaining guests. 

“Hi,” she said, “did you have a nice time?  Did you get your favors?  Oh?   Oh I’m so glad.  I made the fudge.”  This always got attention, and Gen smiled even wider inside, to herself. Hook.  “Wasn’t the cake nice?  I really enjoyed it.  Here, have a box.  Take some with you!” Whitney crossed paths with her and gave her a thumbs up. Gen winked and deftly inserted herself into yet another conversation, selling cake as well as she could... and after years of working in a bakery Gen could sell some serious cake. 

“My goodness, that’s a long drive,” she told that knot of guests. “You should take some cake along with you for the trip! No, no, take the entire cake. I insist. Please, it will only be thrown away if you don’t.” To another guest, she said: “You’re going by plane? When do you fly out? Well, you know I really think you could use some cake to lift your spirits for the trip. Who knows how long the security line will be? Chocolate is a mood lifter, you know.” On her way to another pile of guests she caught sight of Hvitserk, talking to Angela’s dad. The two men both gave her the thumbs up. Gen grinned at them both and returned it. Good, the caterers had boxed up the top of the wedding cake. Ten cakes down, eight  
more, and two layers of wedding cake, to go. 

 

After the DJ finally killed the music Hvitserk stood off to one side with Angela’s dad. They stood without speaking for a while, just watching the crowd. Whitney and Angela’s cousin were picking up flower arrangements, setting them off to the side where Ermintrude and two other ladies were boxing them up. “What’s going to happen to all the flowers?” he asked. Angela’s dad smiled. 

“We’re donating them to the local hospitals. Eirik's parents are helping my wife and me deliver them tomorrow.” Hvitserk smiled back, touched. 

“That’s really awesome.” 

“I thought so. The officiant suggested it. The vases are all yard sale finds, and I’m more than glad not to try to have to find a home for them after this!” Speaking of not taking things home, Gen was pushing cake like a used car salesman. He gave her the thumbs-up when she bustled past, and she grinned and gave it back. When Hvitserk realized Angela’s father had given her the exact same gesture he laughed. 

“Your daughter has nice friends,” Hvitserk said. 

“She does,” Angela’s father agreed peacefully. “She really does.” He turned to smile at Hvitserk and held out his hand. “You’re one of them.” Hvitserk took it, wondering at the turn his life had taken since he’d stepped up and put his foot down, from consistently underappreciated to consistently thanked, and wondered who he should thank for it. 

“Thank you, sir,” he told Angela’s dad. The man clasped Hvitserk's elbow. 

“No, thank you. We really appreciate the ride and everything else you’ve done for Eirik and Angela. It looks like the ladies are done packing those flowers— I’d better go help them load. You have a safe trip back now, you hear?” 

“Yes sir,” Hvitserk said, smiling. “You as well.” Gen came up to him a few minutes later. 

“All done?” Hvitserk teased gently. “I can still see cake.” She wrinkled her nose at him playfully. 

“The remaining guests are party poopers. I told the hotel staff they can eat whatever’s left after we leave. Eirik's taking cake back to the hotel room... more cake than Angela knows about, I think, but that’s none of my business if he wants to try to smuggle half a strawberry layer cake onto a flight to Jamaica.” Hvitserk chuckled and looked at her, expectantly. 

“Well?” 

Gen was laughing and teasing him, the way she had before they’d fought, only this time it was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. He knew her answer, he thought he knew her answer, he was almost certain, but she hadn’t said. Not out loud, not the way he needed her to, and the suspense was starting to make him twitchy. “Well what?” 

“Don’t you have something to tell me?” Gen tilted her head, a teasing light in her pretty hazel eyes. 

“The fat lady hasn’t started singing, Hvitserk. I have a question for you, though.” 

“Oh?” 

“Would you mind taking the wedding gifts back to Angela and Eirik's place in your van, since you’ve got a key to the apartment?” Hvitserk felt his eyebrows rising in surprise. 

“I thought I was doing that anyway.” Gen gave him an exasperated look. 

“I’m trying to be a nice person.” 

“Ah. Right. Yes, Gen, I will play delivery van for the wedding presents.” 

“Good,” she beamed. “Can I have your car keys so Whitney and I can load them?” He reached into his pocket and held out his keys. Gen took them, but Hvitserk didn’t let go. 

“I’m starting to see why you don’t like suspense movies, Gen.” She smiled at him. 

“But you do like them.” 

“Gen,” he said, and she sighed, smile fading into something hopeful and hesitant. 

“I’ll tell you before we get in our cars and leave. I promise.” Hvitserk nodded and released the keys. Eirik wandered up to him next. 

“Done thanking your guests?” Hvitserk asked. 

“Almost. I’ve got one left,” Eirik said, and grinned at Hvitserk. “Thanks for coming, Hvitserk. Have a good time?” he asked, and Hvitserk nodded. 

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Congratulations.” 

“Thanks.” Eirik looked around the reception hall. “This place is amazing. It’s unreal how much work this was. Hey, you wanna pitch in?” Hvitserk looked around the reception hall. There was still plenty of things to do, starting with helping Whitney and Gen load gifts, continuing through helping the parents of the bride and groom load all those flowers (and into what, he wondered. It had taken two vehicles to get them all here... but he wasn’t curious enough to go and find out). There were dishes to clear, chairs to stack, tablecloths to fold, and for a minute he had the urge, the old habit, to say “sure” and start helping the hotel staff stack things. Then he stopped. You know what? he thought. The heck with this. The caterers don’t need my help. The hotel staff doesn’t need my help either. They’re getting paid for this. 

“No.” 

“What?” Eirik said.  

“No.” Hvitserk shrugged. “I’m not helping tear down the room. Sorry.”  

“Okay.” Eirik was looking at him strangely. “Is something wrong?” 

“What? No. Why would you think something’s wrong?” 

“It’s just that you usually love doing stuff like this.” He gestured around the room. “Helping.” 

“Eirik,” Hvitserk said frankly, “I do like helping, as long as it’s appreciated—and as long as I’m asked to help, rather than just volunteered by someone else. Angela is kind of… well, she does that a lot. But on the other hand, she is really good at telling you how much it means to her and how grateful she is.” 

“Yeah,” Eirik smiled playfully. Hvitserk recognized that smile. “She’s—” 

“If this is anything I should not be hearing about your wife on your wedding day, then I think you should stop talking.” 

“—very good at making someone feel appreciated.” 

“Very nice.” Hvitserk smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Have a nice married life.” 

“Thanks, man.” Eirik smiled. “Have a good night and a safe trip back. And... Hvitserk?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks for watching the apartment for us,” Eirik said. “It really means a lot to us to have someone keeping an eye on the place while we’re gone. And sorry about the volunteering thing. I won’t take you for granted, I promise.”  Hvitserk sighed. 

“Apology accepted. Now go on back to your bride and don’t ask me for anything at the last minute ever again.” He softened it with a smile. “Unless people may die.”  
Eirik smiled back. 

“We’ll get you something nice on the honeymoon.” 

“You’d better.” Grinning, he wandered out into the parking lot to see if the ladies were done loading the wedding gifts yet.


	14. Chapter 14

He felt curiously light not having anything to do. He hadn’t offered to help load the presents and he didn’t feel guilty about it. Gen and Whitney were capable (sometimes frighteningly so), they’d started to do it without anyone asking them, and if they’d wanted his help, they’d have asked him for it. Hvitserk tilted his head back and looked at the sky, taking a deep, cleansing breath of cold air. It was still mostly overcast but that just made the sunset more beautiful. Almost perfect. He let the air out in a whoosh and strolled over to his van, where Whitney and Gen were waiting. Yes, almost perfect. Almost. 

Whitney saw him coming and said something to Gen that Hvitserk couldn’t hear at this distance. Then Whitney waved at Hvitserk with a friendly smile and left, back into the reception. Leaving him alone with Gen. The dimming light made her hazel eyes stand out and look startling, almost unearthly. 

“All done? Fat lady singing?” 

“Yes,” she said quietly, wrapping her arms around herself. Hvitserk slipped his suit jacket off and held it out to her. Gen looked up at him, almost startled. 

“You look cold,” he said, smiling easily. Gen returned the smile almost shyly, wrapping his jacket over her shoulders.

“Thank you. Won’t you be cold?” He shrugged. 

“It’s fine. I won’t be out here very long, I don’t think.” He leaned against the side of the van. “I should get to bed soon. I’ve got to leave in the morning.” 

“Yeah, me too. You’re not staying to clean up?” 

“Nope,” Hvitserk said, unable to conceal his pleasure at that fact. He didn’t really want to, either. “Turned Eirik down flat.” 

“Really?” Gen grinned. “Good job. I’m proud of you.” Hvitserk raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Are you really?”   She laughed. 

“No, I really am. Truly. That must’ve been hard for you.” 

“Not as hard as I thought it would be. Surprisingly easy, as a matter of fact, after I did it. So. You and Whitney are leaving soon?” 

“No, just me.” Gen shook her head. “Whitney’s got a friend from high school who lives here. She’s staying another few days and riding back with someone else, and I’ve got to work.” She shrugged. “We worked it out like this weeks ago.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

Gen tilted her head at him. “Did you… need any help unloading the van when we get back to Kattegat?” 

“That depends.” He tilted his head back at her. “Why?” 

“I… thought it would be nice.” She swallowed. “And I want to caravan home, follow you, so it’s not quite so lonely, and…” She swallowed again. Hvitserk waited, patiently, for her to finish. She had to make a decision. She had to say it, because he wasn’t going to guess no matter how much he thought he knew the answer. Gen took a deep breath through her nose and looked at him. “And I wanted to ask you out to dinner sometime,” she said. 

“As friends?” 

“No,” Gen said quietly, not looking away. “Not as friends. As… lovers, partners. Whatever we’re going to be. Just don’t call me your girlfriend.” His heart lifted almost all the way to the clouds. Hvitserk smiled. 

“Sure. I promise.” Gen moved closer to him and he wrapped his arms around her curvaceous frame, gathering her close. She smelled good. “Can I call you my Gen?” he asked, nose in her hair. She giggled. 

“Only if I can call you my Hvitserk.” 

“It’s a deal. You can call me anything you want,” he said, and kissed her.

 

They were both tired when they got back to Kattegat… at least, Gen was tired, and Hvitserk looked tired. She wasn’t used to staying up late and Hvitserk readily confirmed that he wasn’t a morning person and wasn’t used to getting up as early as he had been the last several days. “I bequeath all my early mornings to you,” he had promised her solemnly at one of their rest stops. “Take them in good health, I don’t need them.” It was silly, but Gen had laughed and loved the gesture. They had let the spirit of mischief overtake them when they got to Eirik and Angela’s apartment and had stacked up all the wedding gifts on Eirik and Angela’s bed.

“They’re not going to be able to sleep!” Gen had protested, grinning even while she had stacked more gifts on the bed. 

“They’ll have come back from their honeymoon well-rested,” Hvitserk had said firmly. “They won’t need to sleep. Or they can put all this stuff on the floor.” And they’d snickered at each other and made a fort on the bed out of the presents. Once the fort was done and they’d stood there admiring it Gen stopped. 

“Don’t you need to sleep somewhere?” 

“I am sleeping on the couch,” Hvitserk said firmly as they walked to the living room. 

“I’ve sat on Eirik’s couch,” Gen said, and Hvitserk shook his head. 

“I will buy an air mattress if I have to. Sleeping in someone else’s marriage bed is creepy.” Gen shrugged. 

“Fair enough.” 

“Are you hungry?” Hvitserk asked after a heartbeat of the two of them just standing in Eirik’s living room looking at each other. 

“Starved,” Gen admitted. 

“Well, let’s go. There was no food in this place when I left, and I doubt good fairies have come to slay the beast that dwells within the refrigerator and stock up the kitchen while we were away.” They wound up at an all-night diner, talking about silly, pointless things over French fries and scrambled eggs. 

“Do you work tomorrow?” Hvitserk asked once they were mostly finished. Gen shrugged. 

“I’m not scheduled, but I might go in anyway.” 

“Right,” Hvitserk said. He checked his watch. “In… five or six hours.” 

“So I’ll go take a nap! Working at four means I’m done anytime between noon and two.” She looked at him curiously. “When do you go back to work?” 

“Tomorrow night. I’m on at seven.” She nodded. “In the evening,” Hvitserk clarified, and Gen laughed. 

“Right, I forgot.” She yawned, a huge, jaw cracking yawn, and Hvitserk chuckled. 

“Come on,” he said. “Bedtime for bakers.” 

“Past bedtime,” Gen mumbled, holding his hand.  

“You know,” he said out in the parking lot, swinging their joined hands gently, “I’m really glad you said yes. I don’t remember if I’d told you that.” Gen smiled and tugged at their hands, making him look at her.

“I know,” she teased. “It’d have been hard to find another grocery store to use if you’d had to avoid me.” 

“I’m serious,” Hvitserk said, stopping them midway out to their cars. He looked serious, too, gesturing slowly with his free hand. “This is what I wanted. This… silly conversations in diners, and getting to hold your hand, and finding out how you are. We could have done this anyway but I needed you to tell me. You had to say it.” 

“Because you needed to know that this was what I wanted, too.” 

“Yes.” Gen stepped closer, lacing their fingers together. “It was what I needed too, and I hadn’t ever realized it.” She looked up at him, staring into his warm green eyes, not looking away. She didn’t feel any need to look away, to hide. “Until you told me you weren’t going to be a ‘safe substitute’ I hadn’t even realized that was what I’d been doing.” She smiled. “You should be my therapist.” 

“You think so?” Hvitserk groaned.  

“Why not? Don’t you counsel your callers? Talk them down from the ledge?” 

“Yeah, but I’m grateful I’m not your therapist,” Hvitserk said, voice hoarse and quiet, “because if I were, I would never be able to do this.” He shook their joined hands gently and leaned in to kiss her on her forehead, light and sweet. 

“Good point,” Gen whispered, then stepped back, looking at him lead her towards the cars. Gen just followed the pull of their twined fingers until they got to his van and her car, parked side by side. She stood back and smiled at him, incredibly amused. “Hvitserk?” she asked. He was holding open the van’s passenger door for her. “What are you doing?” Hvitserk paused. The poor man was obviously racking his tired brain for some kind of error he’d just committed. 

“Taking you home… am I not supposed to hold open your door?” 

“My car is here, Hvitserk,” Gen said kindly, trying not to laugh. Hvitserk blinked. 

“Right!” he said sharply. “Right then.” Gen stepped up very close to him and nudged him with her forehead, snickering, and Hvitserk put his arms around her waist and grinned.

“We are so tired,” she said, and he agreed, still chuckling. 

“Bedtime,” he said. 

“You can follow me home if you like,” Gen offered, leaning into him. “So you’ll know where I live when it’s time for our real date.” 

“Deal,” he said. They drove sedately, a concession to the darkness and their own exhaustion, and she waited for him at the steps up to her door. 

“Come up,” she said, when he’d got out of the van and stood next to it. 

“I probably shouldn’t.” 

“Come up anyway,” she begged, and he smiled and walked with her to the door. She unlocked it, and closed it behind him once he’d entered, looking around her living room. It was just like she’d left it, including the faint smell of fudge. Gen cocked her head at him, and Hvitserk smiled back at her, crookedly. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Gen leaned into his embrace and kissed him back. She kissed him the way, in retrospect, she wished she’d kissed him on the dance floor at the reception, the way she wished she’d kissed him in the diner’s parking lot. He didn’t taste like fudge this time, but the kiss was just as sweet as that one back in the hotel… no, sweeter, because no one was going to interrupt them. Callie knocked a bowl around the kitchen, howling to be fed. Hvitserk pulled back, smiling, and Gen turned around in his arms and scowled. 

“Damn it, Callie, I know for a fact that my neighbor’s been feeding you!” Callie waltzed into the living room and sat, looking completely unrepentant. The cat stared at them steadily, tail waving. Hvitserk turned her around in his arms and kissed the end of her nose. 

“Goodnight,” he said softly, chuckling. 

“You’re leaving?” His gaze was warm. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said affectionately. “And we’ll go on a real date.” 

Callie knocked the bowl around the kitchen again, louder than before. “I’m leaving the cat with my neighbor,” Gen swore. 

“Leave the cat,” Hvitserk chuckled, and leaned in, heat in his eyes. He whispered in her ear. “We might need a chaperone.”


	15. Chapter 15

The bakery was packed. Hvitserk walked into Sweet Favors at the crack of eight. He’d come off his shift at six in the morning and drove the hour and a half back to Kattegat. Hvitserk was exhausted and wanted to crawl into bed (well, onto the couch) and sleep, but he wanted to see Gen more.  Even though he’d seen her yesterday. Even though he’d stopped by after work every day since they’d returned almost two weeks ago. Even though he was seeing her tomorrow. Even though Angela and Eirik were coming home the day after that, and he should probably be getting himself and his stuff back to his own place. It was his day off tomorrow and they were going out to eat at her favorite restaurant.   
It was going to be at four in the afternoon in deference to their odd schedules (dinner for Gen was usually breakfast or lunch for Hvitserk), but it was a real date, no friends, families of friends, or fudge allowed. It would be their—what was it now, sixth or seventh date?  Hvitserk could hardly believe they’d already spent so much time together, but by now they felt so close, so connected both emotionally and physically, that being without each other seemed almost unnatural. Which was saying quite a lot for a woman like Gen. 

They needed each other, craved each other, like… well, like the customers at Sweet Favors craved Gen’s cinnamon buns. Their first date had been a movie date, one of the big blockbusters that was neither of their favorites, but had enough mystery to keep him happy and enough history to satisfy her, and then they’d gone back to Gen’s apartment to cuddle on the couch watching old movies on TV. The cat had been an excellent chaperone. 

After begging shamelessly for food Callie had sat on Hvitserk’s lap and growled at him whenever he’d try to move. He’d had to ask Gen to save him when he’d finally had to use the bathroom, because… well, it was ridiculous, and he couldn’t seem to stop sniggering long enough to safely get himself out from under the cat’s paws. He’d try to shift the cat, Callie would growl, and that would set him off laughing again. Callie seemed to view Hvitserk’s lap as personal property. The counter clerk gave Hvitserk a friendly smile when he finally got to the front of the line. 

“Hey Hvitserk,” she greeted. “Here for Gen again, right?” 

“Yeah,” he smiled, and the clerk slid him a cup of coffee. 

“Go have a seat,” she said, “I’ll get her.” 

Gen came out with a plate of cinnamon rolls, making her the most beautiful and glorious creature in the world at that moment and Hvitserk told her so. “You’re just saying that because I’m holding cinnamon rolls,” she said, though she was obviously pleased. 

“Gen, I bet if you took a poll of this bakery’s customers all of them would say that the sight of you holding cinnamon rolls is beautiful,” he protested. “But I say you don’t need any sweets to be lovely and stunning. You just are…” He didn’t finish the sentence but reached for the pair of cinnamon rolls she’d saved for him, basking a little in the bald envy of some of the other customers. 

Eight in the morning and Sweet Favors was fresh out of cinnamon rolls until the after-lunch batch was done rising and baking. “You’re still biased,” she insisted gently, and kissed him. Even this brief kiss, surrounded by an audience of hungry, not very-romantic customers, sent a shock of electricity through Hvitserk. The soft sweetness of her lips mingled with the lingering taste of cinnamon made him feel warm, strong, secure—everything she was, and everything he was now, too.  From the barely audible sigh Gen gave as their lips met, Hvitserk knew she felt exactly as he did.  

They desired each other, but even more than that, they fit. They were already partners, as early in their relationship as it was. “I am biased,” he admitted when the kiss ended, too soon. “The mob over there adore your products, and worship you as a baker.  But I…”  He paused only briefly as one last remnant of his old, doubtful self flickered, then died. He continued: “I love you.” Gen’s eyes widened, her skin flushed despite the light dusting of flour on her cheeks. 

And then, ignoring the impatient crowd altogether, she leaned in again. “I love you too, Hvitserk,” she said softly, whispering the words to his lips just before she met his mouth with hers. All the people in the bakery, all the sounds around them, faded. And on some level, some subconscious premonition, at that moment both knew that whatever it took, whatever their future paths may be, soon they would be planning their own wedding. With only one cake, of course. And definitely… no fudge. 

THE END

 

 

Mocha Marble Fudge  
Ingredients:  
Butter for greasing   
1  can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk (not evaporated)   
1 tablespoon instant espresso coffee powder or coffee granules   
1 bag (12 oz) white vanilla baking chips (2 cups)   
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips (6 oz)   
½ teaspoon vanilla   
Line bottom and sides of 8- or 9-inch square pan with foil, leaving foil overhanging 2 opposite sides of pan; grease foil with butter. 

In 2-quart nonstick saucepan, mix ¾ cup of the milk and the espresso powder. Stir in white baking chips. Heat over medium-low heat 5 to 7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until chips are melted and mixture is smooth. Spread in pan. 

In same saucepan, mix remaining milk, the chocolate chips and vanilla. Heat over medium-low heat 5 to 7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until chips are melted and mixture is smooth. Drop by spoonfuls over espresso layer. Swirl mixtures with table knife. Gently press with hand to smooth top. 

Refrigerate about 2 hours or until cooled and firm. Remove from pan, using foil to lift. Cut into 1-inch pieces. 

 

Cinnamon Rolls  
Ingredients:

¼ c water, warm   
¼ c butter, melted   
½ pkg instant vanilla pudding mix   
1 c warm milk   
1 egg, room temperature   
1 Tbsp white sugar   
½ tsp salt   
4 c all purpose flour   
1 package dry yeast   
¼ c butter, softened   
1 c brown sugar   
4 tsp cinnamon, ground   
½ package cream cheese, softened   
¼ c butter, softened   
1 c confectioners’ sugar   
½ tsp vanilla extract   
1 ½ tsp milk  
In the pan of your bread machine, combine water, melted butter, vanilla pudding, warm milk, egg, 1 tablespoon sugar, salt, flour, and yeast. Set machine to Dough cycle; press Start.  
When the dough cycle has finish, turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and roll into a 17x10 inch rectangle. Spread with softened butter. In a small bowl, stir together brown sugar, cinnamon and pecans. Sprinkle with sugar mixture over dough.  
Roll up dough, beginning with long side. Slice into 16 one inch slices and place in 9x13 inch buttered pan. Let rise in a worm place until doubled, about 45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 350 degrees F.  
Bake in preheated oven for 15 to 20 minutes. While rolls bake, stir together cream cheese, softened butter, confectioners sugar, vanilla and milk. Remove rolls from oven and top with frosting.


End file.
